SISTER MARIA CHRISTINA sings
Wake, sisters, wake! the day-star shines;Above Ephrata's eastern pinesThe dawn is breaking, cool and calm.Wake, sisters, wake to prayer and psalm!Praised be the Lord for shade and light,For toil by day, for rest by night!Praised be His name who deigns to blessOur Kedar of the wilderness!Our refuge when the spoiler's handWas heavy on our native land;And freedom, to her children due,The wolf and vulture only knew.We praised Him when to prison led,We owned Him when the stake blazed red;We knew, whatever might befall,His love and power were over all.He heard our prayers; with outstretched armHe led us forth from cruel harm;Still, wheresoe'er our steps were bent,His cloud and fire before us went!The watch of faith and prayer He set,We kept it then, we keep it yet.At midnight, crow of cock, or noon,He cometh sure, He cometh soon.He comes to chasten, not destroy,To purge the earth from sin's alloy.At last, at last shall all confessHis mercy as His righteousness.The dead shall live, the sick be whole,The scarlet sin be white as wool;No discord mar below, above,The music of eternal love!Sound, welcome trump, the last alarm!Lord God of hosts, make bare thine arm,Fulfil this day our long desire,Make sweet and clean the world with fire!Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sightThe lies of time; be swift to smite,Sharp sword of God, all idols down,Genevan creed and Roman crown.Quake, earth, through all thy zones, till allThe fanes of pride and priesteraft fall;And lift thou up in place of themThy gates of pearl, Jerusalem!Lo! rising from baptismal flame,Transfigured, glorious, yet the same,Within the heavenly city's boundOur Kloster Kedar shall be found.He cometh soon! at dawn or noonOr set of sun, He cometh soon.Our prayers shall meet Him on His way;Wake, sisters, wake! arise and pray!1877.
I have attempted to put in English verse a prose translation of a poem by Tinnevaluva, a Hindoo poet of the third century of our era.
Who gives and hides the giving hand,Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise,Shall find his smallest gift outweighsThe burden of the sea and land.Who gives to whom hath naught been given,His gift in need, though small indeedAs is the grass-blade's wind-blown seed,Is large as earth and rich as heaven.Forget it not, O man, to whomA gift shall fall, while yet on earth;Yea, even to thy seven-fold birthRecall it in the lives to come.Who broods above a wrong in thoughtSins much; but greater sin is hisWho, fed and clothed with kindnesses,Shall count the holy alms as nought.Who dares to curse the hands that blessShall know of sin the deadliest cost;The patience of the heavens is lostBeholding man's unthankfulness.For he who breaks all laws may stillIn Sivam's mercy be forgiven;But none can save, in earth or heaven,The wretch who answers good with ill.1877.
The Benedictine EchardSat by the wayside well,Where Marsberg sees the bridalOf the Sarre and the Moselle.Fair with its sloping vineyardsAnd tawny chestnut bloom,The happy vale Ausonius sunkFor holy Treves made room.On the shrine Helena buildedTo keep the Christ coat well,On minster tower and kloster cross,The westering sunshine fell.There, where the rock-hewn circlesO'erlooked the Roman's game,The veil of sleep fell on him,And his thought a dream became.He felt the heart of silenceThrob with a soundless word,And by the inward ear aloneA spirit's voice he heard.And the spoken word seemed writtenOn air and wave and sod,And the bending walls of sapphireBlazed with the thought of God."What lack I, O my children?All things are in my band;The vast earth and the awful starsI hold as grains of sand."Need I your alms? The silverAnd gold are mine alone;The gifts ye bring before meWere evermore my own."Heed I the noise of viols,Your pomp of masque and show?Have I not dawns and sunsetsHave I not winds that blow?"Do I smell your gums of incense?Is my ear with chantings fed?Taste I your wine of worship,Or eat your holy bread?"Of rank and name and honorsAm I vain as ye are vain?What can Eternal FulnessFrom your lip-service gain?"Ye make me not your debtorWho serve yourselves alone;Ye boast to me of homageWhose gain is all your own."For you I gave the prophets,For you the Psalmist's layFor you the law's stone tables,And holy book and day."Ye change to weary burdensThe helps that should uplift;Ye lose in form the spirit,The Giver in the gift."Who called ye to self-torment,To fast and penance vain?Dream ye Eternal GoodnessHas joy in mortal pain?"For the death in life of Nitria,For your Chartreuse ever dumb,What better is the neighbor,Or happier the home?"Who counts his brother's welfareAs sacred as his own,And loves, forgives, and pities,He serveth me alone."I note each gracious purpose,Each kindly word and deed;Are ye not all my children?Shall not the Father heed?"No prayer for light and guidanceIs lost upon mine earThe child's cry in the darknessShall not the Father hear?"I loathe your wrangling councils,I tread upon your creeds;Who made ye mine avengers,Or told ye of my needs;"I bless men and ye curse them,I love them and ye hate;Ye bite and tear each other,I suffer long and wait."Ye bow to ghastly symbols,To cross and scourge and thorn;Ye seek his Syrian mangerWho in the heart is born."For the dead Christ, not the living,Ye watch His empty grave,Whose life alone within youHas power to bless and save."O blind ones, outward groping,The idle quest forego;Who listens to His inward voiceAlone of Him shall know."His love all love exceedingThe heart must needs recall,Its self-surrendering freedom,Its loss that gaineth all."Climb not the holy mountains,Their eagles know not me;Seek not the Blessed Islands,I dwell not in the sea."Gone is the mount of Meru,The triple gods are gone,And, deaf to all the lama's prayers,The Buddha slumbers on."No more from rocky HorebThe smitten waters gush;Fallen is Bethel's ladder,Quenched is the burning bush."The jewels of the UrimAnd Thurnmim all are dim;The fire has left the altar,The sign the teraphim."No more in ark or hill groveThe Holiest abides;Not in the scroll's dead letterThe eternal secret hides."The eye shall fail that searchesFor me the hollow sky;The far is even as the near,The low is as the high."What if the earth is hidingHer old faiths, long outworn?What is it to the changeless truthThat yours shall fail in turn?"What if the o'erturned altarLays bare the ancient lie?What if the dreams and legendsOf the world's childhood die?"Have ye not still my witnessWithin yourselves alway,My hand that on the keys of lifeFor bliss or bale I lay?"Still, in perpetual judgment,I hold assize within,With sure reward of holiness,And dread rebuke of sin."A light, a guide, a warning,A presence ever near,Through the deep silence of the fleshI reach the inward ear."My Gerizim and EbalAre in each human soul,The still, small voice of blessing,And Sinai's thunder-roll."The stern behest of duty,The doom-book open thrown,The heaven ye seek, the hell ye fear,Are with yourselves alone.". . . . .A gold and purple sunsetFlowed down the broad Moselle;On hills of vine and meadow landsThe peace of twilight fell.A slow, cool wind of eveningBlew over leaf and bloom;And, faint and far, the AngelusRang from Saint Matthew's tomb.Then up rose Master Echard,And marvelled: "Can it beThat here, in dream and vision,The Lord hath talked with me?"He went his way; behind himThe shrines of saintly dead,The holy coat and nail of cross,He left unvisited.He sought the vale of EltzbachHis burdened soul to free,Where the foot-hills of the EifelAre glassed in Laachersee.And, in his Order's kloster,He sat, in night-long parle,With Tauler of the Friends of God,And Nicolas of Basle.And lo! the twain made answer"Yea, brother, even thusThe Voice above all voicesHath spoken unto us."The world will have its idols,And flesh and sense their signBut the blinded eyes shall open,And the gross ear be fine."What if the vision tarry?God's time is always best;The true Light shall be witnessed,The Christ within confessed."In mercy or in judgmentHe shall turn and overturn,Till the heart shall be His templeWhere all of Him shall learn."
FOR DR. HENRY I. BOWDITCH.
With warning hand I mark Time's rapid flightFrom life's glad morning to its solemn night;Yet, through the dear God's love, I also showThere's Light above me by the Shade below.1879.
Stranger and traveller,Drink freely and bestowA kindly thought on herWho bade this fountain flow,Yet hath no other claimThan as the ministerOf blessing in God's name.Drink, and in His peace go1879
In the minister's morning sermonHe had told of the primal fall,And how thenceforth the wrath of GodRested on each and all.And how of His will and pleasure,All souls, save a chosen few,Were doomed to the quenchless burning,And held in the way thereto.Yet never by faith's unreasonA saintlier soul was tried,And never the harsh old lessonA tenderer heart belied.And, after the painful serviceOn that pleasant Sabbath day,He walked with his little daughterThrough the apple-bloom of May.Sweet in the fresh green meadowsSparrow and blackbird sung;Above him their tinted petalsThe blossoming orchards hung.Around on the wonderful gloryThe minister looked and smiled;"How good is the Lord who gives usThese gifts from His hand, my child."Behold in the bloom of applesAnd the violets in the swardA hint of the old, lost beautyOf the Garden of the Lord!"Then up spake the little maiden,Treading on snow and pink"O father! these pretty blossomsAre very wicked, I think."Had there been no Garden of EdenThere never had been a fall;And if never a tree had blossomedGod would have loved us all.""Hush, child!" the father answered,"By His decree man fell;His ways are in clouds and darkness,But He doeth all things well."And whether by His ordainingTo us cometh good or ill,Joy or pain, or light or shadow,We must fear and love Him still.""Oh, I fear Him!" said the daughter,"And I try to love Him, too;But I wish He was good and gentle,Kind and loving as you."The minister groaned in spiritAs the tremulous lips of painAnd wide, wet eyes upliftedQuestioned his own in vain.Bowing his head he ponderedThe words of the little one;Had he erred in his life-long teaching?Had he wrong to his Master done?To what grim and dreadful idolHad he lent the holiest name?Did his own heart, loving and human,The God of his worship shame?And lo! from the bloom and greenness,From the tender skies above,And the face of his little daughter,He read a lesson of love.No more as the cloudy terrorOf Sinai's mount of law,But as Christ in the Syrian liliesThe vision of God he saw.And, as when, in the clefts of Horeb,Of old was His presence known,The dread Ineffable GloryWas Infinite Goodness alone.Thereafter his hearers notedIn his prayers a tenderer strain,And never the gospel of hatredBurned on his lips again.And the scoffing tongue was prayerful,And the blinded eyes found sight,And hearts, as flint aforetime,Grew soft in his warmth and light.1880.
Call him not heretic whose works attestHis faith in goodness by no creed confessed.Whatever in love's name is truly doneTo free the bound and lift the fallen oneIs done to Christ. Whoso in deed and wordIs not against Him labors for our Lord.When He, who, sad and weary, longing soreFor love's sweet service, sought the sisters' door,One saw the heavenly, one the human guest,But who shall say which loved the Master best?1881.
Voice of the Holy Spirit, making knownMan to himself, a witness swift and sure,Warning, approving, true and wise and pure,Counsel and guidance that misleadeth none!By thee the mystery of life is read;The picture-writing of the world's gray seers,The myths and parables of the primal years,Whose letter kills, by thee interpretedTake healthful meanings fitted to our needs,And in the soul's vernacular expressThe common law of simple righteousness.Hatred of cant and doubt of human creedsMay well be felt: the unpardonable sinIs to deny the Word of God within!1881.
Gallery of sacred pictures manifold,A minster rich in holy effigies,And bearing on entablature and friezeThe hieroglyphic oracles of old.Along its transept aureoled martyrs sit;And the low chancel side-lights half acquaintThe eye with shrines of prophet, bard, and saint,Their age-dimmed tablets traced in doubtful writ!But only when on form and word obscureFalls from above the white supernal lightWe read the mystic characters aright,And life informs the silent portraiture,Until we pause at last, awe-held, beforeThe One ineffable Face, love, wonder, and adore.1881
We live by Faith; but Faith is not the slaveOf text and legend. Reason's voice and God's,Nature's and Duty's, never are at odds.What asks our Father of His children, saveJustice and mercy and humility,A reasonable service of good deeds,Pure living, tenderness to human needs,Reverence and trust, and prayer for light to seeThe Master's footprints in our daily ways?No knotted scourge nor sacrificial knife,But the calm beauty of an ordered lifeWhose very breathing is unworded praise!—A life that stands as all true lives have stood,Firm-rooted in the faith that God is Good.1881.
Dream not, O Soul, that easy is the taskThus set before thee. If it proves at length,As well it may, beyond thy natural strength,Faint not, despair not. As a child may askA father, pray the Everlasting GoodFor light and guidance midst the subtle snaresOf sin thick planted in life's thoroughfares,For spiritual strength and moral hardihood;Still listening, through the noise of time and sense,To the still whisper of the Inward Word;Bitter in blame, sweet in approval heard,Itself its own confirming evidenceTo health of soul a voice to cheer and please,To guilt the wrath of the Eumenides.1881.
But what avail inadequate words to reachThe innermost of Truth? Who shall essay,Blinded and weak, to point and lead the way,Or solve the mystery in familiar speech?Yet, if it be that something not thy own,Some shadow of the Thought to which our schemes,Creeds, cult, and ritual are at best but dreams,Is even to thy unworthiness made known,Thou mayst not hide what yet thou shouldst not dareTo utter lightly, lest on lips of thineThe real seem false, the beauty undivine.So, weighing duty in the scale of prayer,Give what seems given thee. It may prove a seedOf goodness dropped in fallow-grounds of need.1881.
The soul itself its awful witness is.Say not in evil doing, "No one sees,"And so offend the conscious One within,Whose ear can hear the silences of sin.Ere they find voice, whose eyes unsleeping seeThe secret motions of iniquity.Nor in thy folly say, "I am alone."For, seated in thy heart, as on a throne,The ancient Judge and Witness liveth still,To note thy act and thought; and as thy illOr good goes from thee, far beyond thy reach,The solemn Doomsman's seal is set on each.1878.
Before the Ender comes, whose charioteerIs swift or slow Disease, lay up each yearThy harvests of well-doing, wealth that kingsNor thieves can take away. When all the thingsThou tallest thine, goods, pleasures, honors fall,Thou in thy virtue shalt survive them all.1881.
Heed how thou livest. Do no act by dayWhich from the night shall drive thy peace away.In months of sun so live that months of rainShall still be happy. Evermore restrainEvil and cherish good, so shall there beAnother and a happier life for thee.1881.
O dearest bloom the seasons know,Flowers of the Resurrection blow,Our hope and faith restore;And through the bitterness of deathAnd loss and sorrow, breathe a breathOf life forevermore!The thought of Love Immortal blendsWith fond remembrances of friends;In you, O sacred flowers,By human love made doubly sweet,The heavenly and the earthly meet,The heart of Christ and ours!1882.
"All hail!" the bells of Christmas rang,"All hail!" the monks at Christmas sang,The merry monks who kept with cheerThe gladdest day of all their year.But still apart, unmoved thereat,A pious elder brother satSilent, in his accustomed place,With God's sweet peace upon his face."Why sitt'st thou thus?" his brethren cried."It is the blessed Christmas-tide;The Christmas lights are all aglow,The sacred lilies bud and blow."Above our heads the joy-bells ring,Without the happy children sing,And all God's creatures hail the mornOn which the holy Christ was born!"Rejoice with us; no more rebukeOur gladness with thy quiet look."The gray monk answered: "Keep, I pray,Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday."Let heathen Yule fires flicker redWhere thronged refectory feasts are spread;With mystery-play and masque and mimeAnd wait-songs speed the holy time!"The blindest faith may haply save;The Lord accepts the things we have;And reverence, howsoe'er it strays,May find at last the shining ways."They needs must grope who cannot see,The blade before the ear must be;As ye are feeling I have felt,And where ye dwell I too have dwelt."But now, beyond the things of sense,Beyond occasions and events,I know, through God's exceeding grace,Release from form and time and place."I listen, from no mortal tongue,To hear the song the angels sung;And wait within myself to knowThe Christmas lilies bud and blow."The outward symbols disappearFrom him whose inward sight is clear;And small must be the choice of claysTo him who fills them all with praise!"Keep while you need it, brothers mine,With honest zeal your Christmas sign,But judge not him who every mornFeels in his heart the Lord Christ born!"1882.
When on my day of life the night is falling,And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,I hear far voices out of darkness callingMy feet to paths unknown,Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant,Leave not its tenant when its walls decay;O Love Divine, O Helper ever present,Be Thou my strength and stay!Be near me when all else is from me driftingEarth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine,And kindly faces to my own upliftingThe love which answers mine.I have but Thee, my Father! let Thy spiritBe with me then to comfort and uphold;No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit,Nor street of shining gold.Suffice it if—my good and ill unreckoned,And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace—I find myself by hands familiar beckonedUnto my fitting place.Some humble door among Thy many mansions,Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease,And flows forever through heaven's green expansionsThe river of Thy peace.There, from the music round about me stealing,I fain would learn the new and holy song,And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing,The life for which I long.1882
The shadows grow and deepen round me,I feel the deffall in the air;The muezzin of the darkening thicket,I hear the night-thrush call to prayer.The evening wind is sad with farewells,And loving hands unclasp from mine;Alone I go to meet the darknessAcross an awful boundary-line.As from the lighted hearths behind meI pass with slow, reluctant feet,What waits me in the land of strangeness?What face shall smile, what voice shall greet?What space shall awe, what brightness blind me?What thunder-roll of music stun?What vast processions sweep before meOf shapes unknown beneath the sun?I shrink from unaccustomed glory,I dread the myriad-voiced strain;Give me the unforgotten faces,And let my lost ones speak again.He will not chide my mortal yearningWho is our Brother and our Friend;In whose full life, divine and human,The heavenly and the earthly blend.Mine be the joy of soul-communion,The sense of spiritual strength renewed,The reverence for the pure and holy,The dear delight of doing good.No fitting ear is mine to listenAn endless anthem's rise and fall;No curious eye is mine to measureThe pearl gate and the jasper wall.For love must needs be more than knowledge:What matter if I never knowWhy Aldebaran's star is ruddy,Or warmer Sirius white as snow!Forgive my human words, O Father!I go Thy larger truth to prove;Thy mercy shall transcend my longingI seek but love, and Thou art Love!I go to find my lost and mourned forSafe in Thy sheltering goodness still,And all that hope and faith foreshadowMade perfect in Thy holy will!1883.
Francesca Alexander, whose pen and pencil have so reverently transcribed the simple faith and life of the Italian peasantry, wrote the narrative published with John Ruskin's introduction under the title,The Story of Ida.
Weary of jangling noises never stilled,The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate, the dinOf clashing texts, the webs of creed men spinRound simple truth, the children grown who buildWith gilded cards their new Jerusalem,Busy, with sacerdotal tailoringsAnd tinsel gauds, bedizening holy things,I turn, with glad and grateful heart, from themTo the sweet story of the FlorentineImmortal in her blameless maidenhood,Beautiful as God's angels and as good;Feeling that life, even now, may be divineWith love no wrong can ever change to hate,No sin make less than all-compassionate!1884.
A tender child of summers three,Seeking her little bed at night,Paused on the dark stair timidly."Oh, mother! Take my hand," said she,"And then the dark will all be light."We older children grope our wayFrom dark behind to dark before;And only when our hands we lay,Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,And there is darkness nevermore.Reach downward to the sunless daysWherein our guides are blind as we,And faith is small and hope delays;Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,And let us feel the light of Thee!1884.
Smoothing soft the nestling headOf a maiden fancy-led,Thus a grave-eyed woman said:"Richest gifts are those we make,Dearer than the love we takeThat we give for love's own sake."Well I know the heart's unrest;Mine has been the common quest,To be loved and therefore blest."Favors undeserved were mine;At my feet as on a shrineLove has laid its gifts divine."Sweet the offerings seemed, and yetWith their sweetness came regret,And a sense of unpaid debt."Heart of mine unsatisfied,Was it vanity or prideThat a deeper joy denied?"Hands that ope but to receiveEmpty close; they only liveRichly who can richly give."Still," she sighed, with moistening eyes,"Love is sweet in any guise;But its best is sacrifice!"He who, giving, does not craveLikest is to Him who gaveLife itself the loved to save."Love, that self-forgetful gives,Sows surprise of ripened sheaves,Late or soon its own receives."1884.
The tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs must shedThat nearer heaven the living ones may climb;The false must fail, though from our shores of timeThe old lament be heard, "Great Pan is dead!"That wail is Error's, from his high place hurled;This sharp recoil is Evil undertrod;Our time's unrest, an angel sent of GodTroubling with life the waters of the world.Even as they list the winds of the Spirit blowTo turn or break our century-rusted vanes;Sands shift and waste; the rock alone remainsWhere, led of Heaven, the strong tides come and go,And storm-clouds, rent by thunderbolt and wind,Leave, free of mist, the permanent stars behind.Therefore I trust, although to outward senseBoth true and false seem shaken; I will holdWith newer light my reverence for the old,And calmly wait the births of Providence.No gain is lost; the clear-eyed saints look downUntroubled on the wreck of schemes and creeds;Love yet remains, its rosary of good deedsCounting in task-field and o'erpeopled town;Truth has charmed life; the Inward Word survives,And, day by day, its revelation brings;Faith, hope, and charity, whatsoever thingsWhich cannot be shaken, stand. Still holy livesReveal the Christ of whom the letter told,And the new gospel verifies the old.1885.
I have attempted this paraphrase of the Hymns of the Brahmo Somaj of India, as I find them in Mozoomdar's account of the devotional exercises of that remarkable religious development which has attracted far less attention and sympathy from the Christian world than it deserves, as a fresh revelation of the direct action of the Divine Spirit upon the human heart.
I.The mercy, O Eternal One!By man unmeasured yet,In joy or grief, in shade or sun,I never will forget.I give the whole, and not a part,Of all Thou gayest me;My goods, my life, my soul and heart,I yield them all to Thee!II.We fast and plead, we weep and pray,From morning until even;We feel to find the holy way,We knock at the gate of heavenAnd when in silent awe we wait,And word and sign forbear,The hinges of the golden gateMove, soundless, to our prayer!Who hears the eternal harmoniesCan heed no outward word;Blind to all else is he who seesThe vision of the Lord!III.O soul, be patient, restrain thy tears,Have hope, and not despair;As a tender mother heareth her childGod hears the penitent prayer.And not forever shall grief be thine;On the Heavenly Mother's breast,Washed clean and white in the waters of joyShall His seeking child find rest.Console thyself with His word of grace,And cease thy wail of woe,For His mercy never an equal hath,And His love no bounds can know.Lean close unto Him in faith and hope;How many like thee have foundIn Him a shelter and home of peace,By His mercy compassed round!There, safe from sin and the sorrow it brings,They sing their grateful psalms,And rest, at noon, by the wells of God,In the shade of His holy palms!1885.
"And I went into the Vale of Beavor, and as I went I preached repentance to the people. And one morning, sitting by the fire, a great cloud came over me, and a temptation beset me. And it was said: All things come by Nature; and the Elements and the Stars came over me. And as I sat still and let it alone, a living hope arose in me, and a true Voice which said: There is a living God who made all things. And immediately the cloud and the temptation vanished, and Life rose over all, and my heart was glad and I praised the Living God."—Journal of George Fox, 1690.
Still, as of old, in Beavor's Vale,O man of God! our hope and faithThe Elements and Stars assail,And the awed spirit holds its breath,Blown over by a wind of death.Takes Nature thought for such as we,What place her human atom fills,The weed-drift of her careless sea,The mist on her unheeding hills?What reeks she of our helpless wills?Strange god of Force, with fear, not love,Its trembling worshipper! Can prayerReach the shut ear of Fate, or moveUnpitying Energy to spare?What doth the cosmic Vastness care?In vain to this dread UnconcernFor the All-Father's love we look;In vain, in quest of it, we turnThe storied leaves of Nature's book,The prints her rocky tablets took.I pray for faith, I long to trust;I listen with my heart, and hearA Voice without a sound: "Be just,Be true, be merciful, revereThe Word within thee: God is near!"A light to sky and earth unknownPales all their lights: a mightier forceThan theirs the powers of Nature own,And, to its goal as at its source,His Spirit moves the Universe."Believe and trust. Through stars and suns,Through life and death, through soul and sense,His wise, paternal purpose runs;The darkness of His providenceIs star-lit with benign intents."O joy supreme! I know the Voice,Like none beside on earth or sea;Yea, more, O soul of mine, rejoice,By all that He requires of me,I know what God himself must be.No picture to my aid I call,I shape no image in my prayer;I only know in Him is allOf life, light, beauty, everywhere,Eternal Goodness here and there!I know He is, and what He is,Whose one great purpose is the goodOf all. I rest my soul on HisImmortal Love and Fatherhood;And trust Him, as His children should.I fear no more. The clouded faceOf Nature smiles; through all her thingsOf time and space and sense I traceThe moving of the Spirit's wings,And hear the song of hope she sings.1886