RESIGNATION
By Seumas MacManus
Be still, sad soul, be still,Bend you to Heaven’s high will.When the toilsome race is run,And the summit strove for won—When secrets are unsealed,All hidden things revealed,All mysteries made known,The good we doubted shown,Vexed questionings at rest,I’ll say, “Well, God knew best.”Me thought you went full soon,In the rapture of the noon,In the glory of the sun,Your noble work begun—In your grasp the magic wandThat would raise a stricken land—A while you fain would stay;But the call brooked no delay:You sighed, and bowed your head,And they put you with the dead.Our God is kind, and HeWill blunt the shaft to me;Will stay the dripping woeEre the chalice overflow;May let me end the raceWith the high sun on my face,And the hot blood bounding free,Through the beating veins of me.At most but some sad hoursAnd He’ll call me when Night lowers.Oh, at the Trysting Gate,With radiant face you’ll wait!With arms in love outspreadTo take a weary head,And clasp it to your breastWhere always it found rest.You’ll speak no word for joy,But, crooning o’er your boy,Draw him into the Light,Where nevermore comes Night.
Be still, sad soul, be still,Bend you to Heaven’s high will.When the toilsome race is run,And the summit strove for won—When secrets are unsealed,All hidden things revealed,All mysteries made known,The good we doubted shown,Vexed questionings at rest,I’ll say, “Well, God knew best.”Me thought you went full soon,In the rapture of the noon,In the glory of the sun,Your noble work begun—In your grasp the magic wandThat would raise a stricken land—A while you fain would stay;But the call brooked no delay:You sighed, and bowed your head,And they put you with the dead.Our God is kind, and HeWill blunt the shaft to me;Will stay the dripping woeEre the chalice overflow;May let me end the raceWith the high sun on my face,And the hot blood bounding free,Through the beating veins of me.At most but some sad hoursAnd He’ll call me when Night lowers.Oh, at the Trysting Gate,With radiant face you’ll wait!With arms in love outspreadTo take a weary head,And clasp it to your breastWhere always it found rest.You’ll speak no word for joy,But, crooning o’er your boy,Draw him into the Light,Where nevermore comes Night.
Be still, sad soul, be still,Bend you to Heaven’s high will.When the toilsome race is run,And the summit strove for won—When secrets are unsealed,All hidden things revealed,All mysteries made known,The good we doubted shown,Vexed questionings at rest,I’ll say, “Well, God knew best.”
Be still, sad soul, be still,
Bend you to Heaven’s high will.
When the toilsome race is run,
And the summit strove for won—
When secrets are unsealed,
All hidden things revealed,
All mysteries made known,
The good we doubted shown,
Vexed questionings at rest,
I’ll say, “Well, God knew best.”
Me thought you went full soon,In the rapture of the noon,In the glory of the sun,Your noble work begun—In your grasp the magic wandThat would raise a stricken land—A while you fain would stay;But the call brooked no delay:You sighed, and bowed your head,And they put you with the dead.
Me thought you went full soon,
In the rapture of the noon,
In the glory of the sun,
Your noble work begun—
In your grasp the magic wand
That would raise a stricken land—
A while you fain would stay;
But the call brooked no delay:
You sighed, and bowed your head,
And they put you with the dead.
Our God is kind, and HeWill blunt the shaft to me;Will stay the dripping woeEre the chalice overflow;May let me end the raceWith the high sun on my face,And the hot blood bounding free,Through the beating veins of me.At most but some sad hoursAnd He’ll call me when Night lowers.
Our God is kind, and He
Will blunt the shaft to me;
Will stay the dripping woe
Ere the chalice overflow;
May let me end the race
With the high sun on my face,
And the hot blood bounding free,
Through the beating veins of me.
At most but some sad hours
And He’ll call me when Night lowers.
Oh, at the Trysting Gate,With radiant face you’ll wait!With arms in love outspreadTo take a weary head,And clasp it to your breastWhere always it found rest.You’ll speak no word for joy,But, crooning o’er your boy,Draw him into the Light,Where nevermore comes Night.
Oh, at the Trysting Gate,
With radiant face you’ll wait!
With arms in love outspread
To take a weary head,
And clasp it to your breast
Where always it found rest.
You’ll speak no word for joy,
But, crooning o’er your boy,
Draw him into the Light,
Where nevermore comes Night.