In calm and cool and silence, once againI find my old accustomed place amongMy brethren, where, perchance, no human tongueShall utter words; where never hymn is sung,Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung,Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane!There, syllabled by silence, let me hearThe still small voice which reached the prophet's ear;Read in my heart a still diviner lawThan Israel's leader on his tables saw!There let me strive with each besetting sin,Recall my wandering fancies, and restrainThe sore disquiet of a restless brain;And, as the path of duty is made plain,May grace be given that I may walk therein,Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain,With backward glances and reluctant tread,Making a merit of his coward dread,But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown,Walking as one to pleasant service led;Doing God's will as if it were my own,Yet trusting not in mine, but in His strength alone!1852.
The same old baffling questions! O my friend,I cannot answer them. In vain I sendMy soul into the dark, where never burnThe lamps of science, nor the natural lightOf Reason's sun and stars! I cannot learnTheir great and solemn meanings, nor discernThe awful secrets of the eyes which turnEvermore on us through the day and nightWith silent challenge and a dumb demand,Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown,Like the calm Sphinxes, with their eyes of stone,Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand!I have no answer for myself or thee,Save that I learned beside my mother's knee;"All is of God that is, and is to be;And God is good." Let this suffice us still,Resting in childlike trust upon His willWho moves to His great ends unthwarted by the ill.1853.
At morn I prayed, "I fain would seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Read the dark riddle unto me."I wandered forth, the sun and airI saw bestowed with equal careOn good and evil, foul and fair.No partial favor dropped the rain;Alike the righteous and profaneRejoiced above their heading grain.And my heart murmured, "Is it meetThat blindfold Nature thus should treatWith equal hand the tares and wheat?"A presence melted through my mood,—A warmth, a light, a sense of good,Like sunshine through a winter wood.I saw that presence, mailed completeIn her white innocence, pause to greetA fallen sister of the street.Upon her bosom snowy pureThe lost one clung, as if secureFrom inward guilt or outward lure."Beware!" I said; "in this I seeNo gain to her, but loss to theeWho touches pitch defiled must be."I passed the haunts of shame and sin,And a voice whispered, "Who thereinShall these lost souls to Heaven's peace win?"Who there shall hope and health dispense,And lift the ladder up from thenceWhose rounds are prayers of penitence?"I said, "No higher life they know;These earth-worms love to have it so.Who stoops to raise them sinks as low."That night with painful care I readWhat Hippo's saint and Calvin said;The living seeking to the dead!In vain I turned, in weary quest,Old pages, where (God give them rest!)The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed.And still I prayed, "Lord, let me seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Read the dark riddle unto me!"Then something whispered, "Dost thou prayFor what thou hast? This very dayThe Holy Three have crossed thy way."Did not the gifts of sun and airTo good and ill alike declareThe all-compassionate Father's care?"In the white soul that stooped to raiseThe lost one from her evil ways,Thou saw'st the Christ, whom angels praise!"A bodiless Divinity,The still small Voice that spake to theeWas the Holy Spirit's mystery!"O blind of sight, of faith how small!Father, and Son, and Holy CallThis day thou hast denied them all!"Revealed in love and sacrifice,The Holiest passed before thine eyes,One and the same, in threefold guise."The equal Father in rain and sun,His Christ in the good to evil done,His Voice in thy soul;—and the Three are One!"I shut my grave Aquinas fast;The monkish gloss of ages past,The schoolman's creed aside I cast.And my heart answered, "Lord, I seeHow Three are One, and One is Three;Thy riddle hath been read to me!"1858.
The shade for me, but over theeThe lingering sunshine still;As, smiling, to the silent streamComes down the singing rill.So come to me, my little one,—My years with thee I share,And mingle with a sister's loveA mother's tender care.But keep the smile upon thy lip,The trust upon thy brow;Since for the dear one God hath calledWe have an angel now.Our mother from the fields of heavenShall still her ear incline;Nor need we fear her human loveIs less for love divine.The songs are sweet they sing beneathThe trees of life so fair,But sweetest of the songs of heavenShall be her children's prayer.Then, darling, rest upon my breast,And teach my heart to leanWith thy sweet trust upon the armWhich folds us both unseen!1858
Dead Petra in her hill-tomb sleeps,Her stones of emptiness remain;Around her sculptured mystery sweepsThe lonely waste of Edom's plain.From the doomed dwellers in the cleftThe bow of vengeance turns not back;Of all her myriads none are leftAlong the Wady Mousa's track.Clear in the hot Arabian dayHer arches spring, her statues climb;Unchanged, the graven wonders payNo tribute to the spoiler, Time!Unchanged the awful lithographOf power and glory undertrod;Of nations scattered like the chaffBlown from the threshing-floor of God.Yet shall the thoughtful stranger turnFrom Petra's gates with deeper awe,To mark afar the burial urnOf Aaron on the cliffs of Hor;And where upon its ancient guardThy Rock, El Ghor, is standing yet,—Looks from its turrets desertward,And keeps the watch that God has set.The same as when in thunders loudIt heard the voice of God to man,As when it saw in fire and cloudThe angels walk in Israel's van,Or when from Ezion-Geber's wayIt saw the long procession file,And heard the Hebrew timbrels playThe music of the lordly Nile;Or saw the tabernacle pause,Cloud-bound, by Kadesh Barnea's wells,While Moses graved the sacred laws,And Aaron swung his golden bells.Rock of the desert, prophet-sung!How grew its shadowing pile at length,A symbol, in the Hebrew tongue,Of God's eternal love and strength.On lip of bard and scroll of seer,From age to age went down the name,Until the Shiloh's promised year,And Christ, the Rock of Ages, came!The path of life we walk to-dayIs strange as that the Hebrews trod;We need the shadowing rock, as they,—We need, like them, the guides of God.God send His angels, Cloud and Fire,To lead us o'er the desert sand!God give our hearts their long desire,His shadow in a weary land!1859.
"For of Him, and through Him, and to Him are all things, to whom be glory forever! "—PAUL.
Above, below, in sky and sod,In leaf and spar, in star and man,Well might the wise Athenian scanThe geometric signs of God,The measured order of His plan.And India's mystics sang arightOf the One Life pervading all,—One Being's tidal rise and fallIn soul and form, in sound and sight,—Eternal outflow and recall.God is: and man in guilt and fearThe central fact of Nature owns;Kneels, trembling, by his altar-stones,And darkly dreams the ghastly smearOf blood appeases and atones.Guilt shapes the Terror: deep withinThe human heart the secret liesOf all the hideous deities;And, painted on a ground of sin,The fabled gods of torment rise!And what is He? The ripe grain nods,The sweet dews fall, the sweet flowers blow;But darker signs His presence showThe earthquake and the storm are God's,And good and evil interflow.O hearts of love! O souls that turnLike sunflowers to the pure and best!To you the truth is manifest:For they the mind of Christ discernWho lean like John upon His breast!In him of whom the sibyl told,For whom the prophet's harp was toned,Whose need the sage and magian owned,The loving heart of God behold,The hope for which the ages groaned!Fade, pomp of dreadful imageryWherewith mankind have deifiedTheir hate, and selfishness, and pride!Let the scared dreamer wake to seeThe Christ of Nazareth at his side!What doth that holy Guide require?No rite of pain, nor gift of blood,But man a kindly brotherhood,Looking, where duty is desire,To Him, the beautiful and good.Gone be the faithlessness of fear,And let the pitying heaven's sweet rainWash out the altar's bloody stain;The law of Hatred disappear,The law of Love alone remain.How fall the idols false and grim!And to! their hideous wreck aboveThe emblems of the Lamb and Dove!Man turns from God, not God from him;And guilt, in suffering, whispers Love!The world sits at the feet of Christ,Unknowing, blind, and unconsoled;It yet shall touch His garment's fold,And feel the heavenly AlchemistTransform its very dust to gold.The theme befitting angel tonguesBeyond a mortal's scope has grown.O heart of mine! with reverence ownThe fulness which to it belongs,And trust the unknown for the known.1859.
"And I sought, whence is Evil: I set before the eye of my spirit the whole creation; whatsoever we see therein,—sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures,—yea, whatsoever there is we do not see,—angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almightiness cause it not to be? These thoughts I turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares." "And, admonished to return to myself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even beyond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. He who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity! O—Truth, who art Eternity! Love, who art Truth! Eternity, who art Love! And I beheld that Thou madest all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in its kind. Woe is me!—how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee." —AUGUSTINE'S Soliloquies, Book VII.
The fourteen centuries fall awayBetween us and the Afric saint,And at his side we urge, to-day,The immemorial quest and old complaint.No outward sign to us is given,—From sea or earth comes no reply;Hushed as the warm Numidian heavenHe vainly questioned bends our frozen sky.No victory comes of all our strife,—From all we grasp the meaning slips;The Sphinx sits at the gate of life,With the old question on her awful lips.In paths unknown we hear the feetOf fear before, and guilt behind;We pluck the wayside fruit, and eatAshes and dust beneath its golden rind.From age to age descends uncheckedThe sad bequest of sire to son,The body's taint, the mind's defect;Through every web of life the dark threads run.Oh, why and whither? God knows all;I only know that He is good,And that whatever may befallOr here or there, must be the best that could.Between the dreadful cherubimA Father's face I still discern,As Moses looked of old on Him,And saw His glory into goodness turn!For He is merciful as just;And so, by faith correcting sight,I bow before His will, and trustHowe'er they seem He doeth all things right.And dare to hope that Tie will makeThe rugged smooth, the doubtful plain;His mercy never quite forsake;His healing visit every realm of pain;That suffering is not His revengeUpon His creatures weak and frail,Sent on a pathway new and strangeWith feet that wander and with eyes that fail;That, o'er the crucible of pain,Watches the tender eye of LoveThe slow transmuting of the chainWhose links are iron below to gold above!Ah me! we doubt the shining skies,Seen through our shadows of offence,And drown with our poor childish criesThe cradle-hymn of kindly Providence.And still we love the evil cause,And of the just effect complainWe tread upon life's broken laws,And murmur at our self-inflicted pain;We turn us from the light, and findOur spectral shapes before us thrown,As they who leave the sun behindWalk in the shadows of themselves alone.And scarce by will or strength of oursWe set our faces to the day;Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal PowersAlone can turn us from ourselves away.Our weakness is the strength of sin,But love must needs be stronger far,Outreaching all and gathering inThe erring spirit and the wandering star.A Voice grows with the growing years;Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,Looks upward from her graves, and hears,"The Resurrection and the Life am I."O Love Divine!—whose constant beamShines on the eyes that will not see,And waits to bless us, while we dreamThou leavest us because we turn from thee!All souls that struggle and aspire,All hearts of prayer by thee are lit;And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fireOn dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit.Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st,Wide as our need thy favors fall;The white wings of the Holy GhostStoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.O Beauty, old yet ever new!Eternal Voice, and Inward Word,The Logos of the Greek and Jew,The old sphere-music which the Samian heard!Truth, which the sage and prophet saw,Long sought without, but found within,The Law of Love beyond all law,The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin!Shine on us with the light which glowedUpon the trance-bound shepherd's way.Who saw the Darkness overflowedAnd drowned by tides of everlasting Day.Shine, light of God!—make broad thy scopeTo all who sin and suffer; moreAnd better than we dare to hopeWith Heaven's compassion make our longings poor!1860.
Lieutenant Herndon's Report of the Exploration of the Amazon has a striking description of the peculiar and melancholy notes of a bird heard by night on the shores of the river. The Indian guides called it "The Cry of a Lost Soul"! Among the numerous translations of this poem is one by the Emperor of Brazil.
In that black forest, where, when day is done,With a snake's stillness glides the AmazonDarkly from sunset to the rising sun,A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood,The long, despairing moan of solitudeAnd darkness and the absence of all good,Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear,So full of hopeless agony and fear,His heart stands still and listens like his ear.The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll,Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale's thole,Crosses himself, and whispers, "A lost soul!""No, Senor, not a bird. I know it well,—It is the pained soul of some infidelOr cursed heretic that cries from hell."Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair,He wanders, shrieking on the midnight airFor human pity and for Christian prayer."Saints strike him dumb! Our Holy Mother hathNo prayer for him who, sinning unto death,Burns always in the furnace of God's wrath!"Thus to the baptized pagan's cruel lie,Lending new horror to that mournful cry,The voyager listens, making no reply.Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round,From giant trees with snake-like creepers wound,And the black water glides without a sound.But in the traveller's heart a secret senseOf nature plastic to benign intents,And an eternal good in Providence,Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes;And to! rebuking all earth's ominous cries,The Cross of pardon lights the tropic skies!"Father of all!" he urges his strong plea,"Thou lovest all: Thy erring child may beLost to himself, but never lost to Thee!"All souls are Thine; the wings of morning bearNone from that Presence which is everywhere,Nor hell itself can hide, for Thou art there."Through sins of sense, perversities of will,Through doubt and pain, through guilt and shame and ill,Thy pitying eye is on Thy creature still."Wilt thou not make, Eternal Source and Goal!In Thy long years, life's broken circle whole,And change to praise the cry of a lost soul?"1862.
Andrew Rykman's dead and gone;You can see his leaning slateIn the graveyard, and thereonRead his name and date."Trust is truer than our fears,"Runs the legend through the moss,"Gain is not in added years,Nor in death is loss."Still the feet that thither trod,All the friendly eyes are dim;Only Nature, now, and GodHave a care for him.There the dews of quiet fall,Singing birds and soft winds stray:Shall the tender Heart of allBe less kind than they?What he was and what he isThey who ask may haply find,If they read this prayer of hisWhich he left behind.
. . . .Pardon, Lord, the lips that dareShape in words a mortal's prayer!Prayer, that, when my day is done,And I see its setting sun,Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,Sink beneath the horizon's rim,—When this ball of rock and clayCrumbles from my feet away,And the solid shores of senseMelt into the vague immense,Father! I may come to TheeEven with the beggar's plea,As the poorest of Thy poor,With my needs, and nothing more.Not as one who seeks his homeWith a step assured I come;Still behind the tread I hearOf my life-companion, Fear;Still a shadow deep and vastFrom my westering feet is cast,Wavering, doubtful, undefined,Never shapen nor outlinedFrom myself the fear has grown,And the shadow is my own.Yet, O Lord, through all a senseOf Thy tender providenceStays my failing heart on Thee,And confirms the feeble knee;And, at times, my worn feet pressSpaces of cool quietness,Lilied whiteness shone uponNot by light of moon or sun.Hours there be of inmost calm,Broken but by grateful psalm,When I love Thee more than fear Thee,And Thy blessed Christ seems near me,With forgiving look, as whenHe beheld the Magdalen.Well I know that all things moveTo the spheral rhythm of love,—That to Thee, O Lord of all!Nothing can of chance befallChild and seraph, mote and star,Well Thou knowest what we areThrough Thy vast creative planLooking, from the worm to man,There is pity in Thine eyes,But no hatred nor surprise.Not in blind caprice of will,Not in cunning sleight of skill,Not for show of power, was wroughtNature's marvel in Thy thought.Never careless hand and vainSmites these chords of joy and pain;No immortal selfishnessPlays the game of curse and blessHeaven and earth are witnessesThat Thy glory goodness is.Not for sport of mind and forceHast Thou made Thy universe,But as atmosphere and zoneOf Thy loving heart alone.Man, who walketh in a show,Sees before him, to and fro,Shadow and illusion go;All things flow and fluctuate,Now contract and now dilate.In the welter of this sea,Nothing stable is but Thee;In this whirl of swooning trance,Thou alone art permanence;All without Thee only seems,All beside is choice of dreams.Never yet in darkest moodDoubted I that Thou wast good,Nor mistook my will for fate,Pain of sin for heavenly hate,—Never dreamed the gates of pearlRise from out the burning marl,Or that good can only liveOf the bad conservative,And through counterpoise of hellHeaven alone be possible.For myself alone I doubt;All is well, I know, without;I alone the beauty mar,I alone the music jar.Yet, with hands by evil stained,And an ear by discord pained,I am groping for the keysOf the heavenly harmonies;Still within my heart I bearLove for all things good and fair.Hands of want or souls in painHave not sought my door in vain;I have kept my fealty goodTo the human brotherhood;Scarcely have I asked in prayerThat which others might not share.I, who hear with secret shamePraise that paineth more than blame,Rich alone in favors lent,Virtuous by accident,Doubtful where I fain would rest,Frailest where I seem the best,Only strong for lack of test,—What am I, that I should pressSpecial pleas of selfishness,Coolly mounting into heavenOn my neighbor unforgiven?Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised,Comes a saint unrecognized;Never fails my heart to greetNoble deed with warmer beat;Halt and maimed, I own not lessAll the grace of holiness;Nor, through shame or self-distrust,Less I love the pure and just.Lord, forgive these words of mineWhat have I that is not Thine?Whatsoe'er I fain would boastNeeds Thy pitying pardon most.Thou, O Elder Brother! whoIn Thy flesh our trial knew,Thou, who hast been touched by theseOur most sad infirmities,Thou alone the gulf canst spanIn the dual heart of man,And between the soul and senseReconcile all difference,Change the dream of me and mineFor the truth of Thee and Thine,And, through chaos, doubt, and strife,Interfuse Thy calm of life.Haply, thus by Thee renewed,In Thy borrowed goodness good,Some sweet morning yet in God'sDim, veonian periods,Joyful I shall wake to seeThose I love who rest in Thee,And to them in Thee alliedShall my soul be satisfied.Scarcely Hope hath shaped for meWhat the future life may be.Other lips may well be bold;Like the publican of old,I can only urge the plea,"Lord, be merciful to me!"Nothing of desert I claim,Unto me belongeth shame.Not for me the crowns of gold,Palms, and harpings manifold;Not for erring eye and feetJasper wall and golden street.What thou wilt, O Father, give IAll is gain that I receive.If my voice I may not raiseIn the elders' song of praise,If I may not, sin-defiled,Claim my birthright as a child,Suffer it that I to TheeAs an hired servant be;Let the lowliest task be mine,Grateful, so the work be Thine;Let me find the humblest placeIn the shadow of Thy graceBlest to me were any spotWhere temptation whispers not.If there be some weaker one,Give me strength to help him onIf a blinder soul there be,Let me guide him nearer Thee.Make my mortal dreams come trueWith the work I fain would do;Clothe with life the weak intent,Let me be the thing I meant;Let me find in Thy employPeace that dearer is than joy;Out of self to love be ledAnd to heaven acclimated,Until all things sweet and goodSeem my natural habitude.. . . .So we read the prayer of himWho, with John of Labadie,Trod, of old, the oozy rimOf the Zuyder Zee.Thus did Andrew Rykman pray.Are we wiser, better grown,That we may not, in our day,Make his prayer our own?
Spare me, dread angel of reproof,And let the sunshine weave to-dayIts gold-threads in the warp and woofOf life so poor and gray.Spare me awhile; the flesh is weak.These lingering feet, that fain would strayAmong the flowers, shall some day seekThe strait and narrow way.Take off thy ever-watchful eye,The awe of thy rebuking frown;The dullest slave at times must sighTo fling his burdens down;To drop his galley's straining oar,And press, in summer warmth and calm,The lap of some enchanted shoreOf blossom and of balm.Grudge not my life its hour of bloom,My heart its taste of long desire;This day be mine: be those to comeAs duty shall require.The deep voice answered to my own,Smiting my selfish prayers away;"To-morrow is with God alone,And man hath but to-day."Say not, thy fond, vain heart within,The Father's arm shall still be wide,When from these pleasant ways of sinThou turn'st at eventide."'Cast thyself down,' the tempter saith,'And angels shall thy feet upbear.'He bids thee make a lie of faith,And blasphemy of prayer."Though God be good and free be heaven,No force divine can love compel;And, though the song of sins forgivenMay sound through lowest hell,"The sweet persuasion of His voiceRespects thy sanctity of will.He giveth day: thou hast thy choiceTo walk in darkness still;"As one who, turning from the light,Watches his own gray shadow fall,Doubting, upon his path of night,If there be day at all!"No word of doom may shut thee out,No wind of wrath may downward whirl,No swords of fire keep watch aboutThe open gates of pearl;"A tenderer light than moon or sun,Than song of earth a sweeter hymn,May shine and sound forever on,And thou be deaf and dim."Forever round the Mercy-seatThe guiding lights of Love shall burn;But what if, habit-bound, thy feetShall lack the will to turn?"What if thine eye refuse to see,Thine ear of Heaven's free welcome fail,And thou a willing captive be,Thyself thy own dark jail?"Oh, doom beyond the saddest guess,As the long years of God unroll,To make thy dreary selfishnessThe prison of a soul!"To doubt the love that fain would breakThe fetters from thy self-bound limb;And dream that God can thee forsakeAs thou forsakest Him!"1863.
O friends! with whom my feet have trodThe quiet aisles of prayer,Glad witness to your zeal for GodAnd love of man I bear.I trace your lines of argument;Your logic linked and strongI weigh as one who dreads dissent,And fears a doubt as wrong.But still my human hands are weakTo hold your iron creedsAgainst the words ye bid me speakMy heart within me pleads.Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?Who talks of scheme and plan?The Lord is God! He needeth notThe poor device of man.I walk with bare, hushed feet the groundYe tread with boldness shod;I dare not fix with mete and boundThe love and power of God.Ye praise His justice; even suchHis pitying love I deemYe seek a king; I fain would touchThe robe that hath no seam.Ye see the curse which overbroodsA world of pain and loss;I hear our Lord's beatitudesAnd prayer upon the cross.More than your schoolmen teach, withinMyself, alas! I knowToo dark ye cannot paint the sin,Too small the merit show.I bow my forehead to the dust,I veil mine eyes for shame,And urge, in trembling self-distrust,A prayer without a claim.I see the wrong that round me lies,I feel the guilt within;I hear, with groan and travail-cries,The world confess its sin.Yet, in the maddening maze of things,And tossed by storm and flood,To one fixed trust my spirit clings;I know that God is good!Not mine to look where cherubimAnd seraphs may not see,But nothing can be good in HimWhich evil is in me.The wrong that pains my soul belowI dare not throne above,I know not of His hate,—I knowHis goodness and His love.I dimly guess from blessings knownOf greater out of sight,And, with the chastened Psalmist, ownHis judgments too are right.I long for household voices gone,For vanished smiles I long,But God hath led my dear ones on,And He can do no wrong.I know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise,Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.And if my heart and flesh are weakTo bear an untried pain,The bruised reed He will not break,But strengthen and sustain.No offering of my own I have,Nor works my faith to prove;I can but give the gifts He gave,And plead His love for love.And so beside the Silent SeaI wait the muffled oar;No harm from Him can come to meOn ocean or on shore.I know not where His islands liftTheir fronded palms in air;I only know I cannot driftBeyond His love and care.O brothers! if my faith is vain,If hopes like these betray,Pray for me that my feet may gainThe sure and safer way.And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seenThy creatures as they be,Forgive me if too close I leanMy human heart on Thee!1865.
Behind us at our evening mealThe gray bird ate his fill,Swung downward by a single claw,And wiped his hooked bill.He shook his wings and crimson tail,And set his head aslant,And, in his sharp, impatient way,Asked, "What does Charlie want?""Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuckYour head beneath your wing,And go to sleep;"—but o'er and o'erHe asked the self-same thing.Then, smiling, to myself I saidHow like are men and birds!We all are saying what he says,In action or in words.The boy with whip and top and drum,The girl with hoop and doll,And men with lands and houses, askThe question of Poor Poll.However full, with something moreWe fain the bag would cram;We sigh above our crowded netsFor fish that never swam.No bounty of indulgent HeavenThe vague desire can stay;Self-love is still a Tartar millFor grinding prayers alway.The dear God hears and pities all;He knoweth all our wants;And what we blindly ask of HimHis love withholds or grants.And so I sometimes think our prayersMight well be merged in one;And nest and perch and hearth and churchRepeat, "Thy will be done."
Immortal Love, forever full,Forever flowing free,Forever shared, forever whole,A never-ebbing sea!Our outward lips confess the nameAll other names above;Love only knoweth whence it cameAnd comprehendeth love.Blow, winds of God, awake and blowThe mists of earth away!Shine out, O Light Divine, and showHow wide and far we stray!Hush every lip, close every book,The strife of tongues forbear;Why forward reach, or backward look,For love that clasps like air?We may not climb the heavenly steepsTo bring the Lord Christ downIn vain we search the lowest deeps,For Him no depths can drown.Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape,The lineaments restoreOf Him we know in outward shapeAnd in the flesh no more.He cometh not a king to reign;The world's long hope is dim;The weary centuries watch in vainThe clouds of heaven for Him.Death comes, life goes; the asking eyeAnd ear are answerless;The grave is dumb, the hollow skyIs sad with silentness.The letter fails, and systems fall,And every symbol wanes;The Spirit over-brooding allEternal Love remains.And not for signs in heaven aboveOr earth below they look,Who know with John His smile of love,With Peter His rebuke.In joy of inward peace, or senseOf sorrow over sin,He is His own best evidence,His witness is within.No fable old, nor mythic lore,Nor dream of bards and seers,No dead fact stranded on the shoreOf the oblivious years;—But warm, sweet, tender, even yetA present help is He;And faith has still its Olivet,And love its Galilee.The healing of His seamless dressIs by our beds of pain;We touch Him in life's throng and press,And we are whole again.Through Him the first fond prayers are saidOur lips of childhood frame,The last low whispers of our deadAre burdened with His name.Our Lord and Master of us all!Whate'er our name or sign,We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,We test our lives by Thine.Thou judgest us; Thy purityDoth all our lusts condemn;The love that draws us nearer TheeIs hot with wrath to them.Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight;And, naked to Thy glance,Our secret sins are in the lightOf Thy pure countenance.Thy healing pains, a keen distressThy tender light shines in;Thy sweetness is the bitterness,Thy grace the pang of sin.Yet, weak and blinded though we be,Thou dost our service own;We bring our varying gifts to Thee,And Thou rejectest none.To Thee our full humanity,Its joys and pains, belong;The wrong of man to man on TheeInflicts a deeper wrong.Who hates, hates Thee, who loves becomesTherein to Thee allied;All sweet accords of hearts and homesIn Thee are multiplied.Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine,Within our earthly sod,Most human and yet most divine,The flower of man and God!O Love! O Life! Our faith and sightThy presence maketh oneAs through transfigured clouds of whiteWe trace the noon-day sun.So, to our mortal eyes subdued,Flesh-veiled, but not concealed,We know in Thee the fatherhoodAnd heart of God revealed.We faintly hear, we dimly see,In differing phrase we pray;But, dim or clear, we own in TheeThe Light, the Truth, the Way!The homage that we render TheeIs still our Father's own;No jealous claim or rivalryDivides the Cross and Throne.To do Thy will is more than praise,As words are less than deeds,And simple trust can find Thy waysWe miss with chart of creeds.No pride of self Thy service hath,No place for me and mine;Our human strength is weakness, deathOur life, apart from Thine.Apart from Thee all gain is loss,All labor vainly done;The solemn shadow of Thy CrossIs better than the sun.Alone, O Love ineffable!Thy saving name is given;To turn aside from Thee is hell,To walk with Thee is heaven!How vain, secure in all Thou art,Our noisy championshipThe sighing of the contrite heartIs more than flattering lip.Not Thine the bigot's partial plea,Nor Thine the zealot's ban;Thou well canst spare a love of TheeWhich ends in hate of man.Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,What may Thy service be?—Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,But simply following Thee.We bring no ghastly holocaust,We pile no graven stone;He serves thee best who loveth mostHis brothers and Thy own.Thy litanies, sweet officesOf love and gratitude;Thy sacramental liturgies,The joy of doing good.In vain shall waves of incense driftThe vaulted nave around,In vain the minster turret liftIts brazen weights of sound.The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells,Thy inward altars raise;Its faith and hope Thy canticles,And its obedience praise!1866.