1.
THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all;
Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray;
How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall;
How we grow weary plodding on the way;
Of future joy how present pain bereaves, Rounding us with a dark of mere decay, Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.
2.
Thou knowest all our weeping, fainting, striving;
Thou know'st how very hard it is to be;
How hard to rouse faint will not yet reviving;
To do the pure thing, trusting all to thee;
To hold thou art there, for all no face we see;
How hard to think, through cold and dark and dearth, That thou art nearer now than when eye-seen on earth.
3.
Have pity on us for the look of things, When blank denial stares us in the face.
Although the serpent mask have lied before, It fascinates the bird that darkling sings, And numbs the little prayer-bird's beating wings.
For how believe thee somewhere in blank space, If through the darkness come no knocking to our door?
4.
If we might sit until the darkness go, Possess our souls in patience perhaps we might;
But there is always something to be done, And no heart left to do it. To and fro The dull thought surges, as the driven waves fight In gulfy channels. Oh! victorious one, Give strength to rise, go out, and meet thee in the night.
5.
"Wake, thou that sleepest; rise up from the dead, And Christ will give thee light." I do not know What sleep is, what is death, or what is light;
But I am waked enough to feel a woe, To rise and leave death. Stumbling through the night, To my dim lattice, O calling Christ! I go, And out into the dark look for thy star-crowned head.
6.
There are who come to me, and write, and send, Whom I would love, giving good things to all, But friend--that name I cannot on them spend;
'Tis from the centre of self-love they call For cherishing--for which they first must know How to be still, and take the seat that's low:
When, Lord, shall I be fit--when wilt thou call me friend?
7.
Wilt thou not one day, Lord? In all my wrong, Self-love and weakness, laziness and fear, This one thing I can say: I am content To be and have what in thy heart I am meant To be and have. In my best times I long After thy will, and think it glorious-dear;
Even in my worst, perforce my will to thine is bent.
8.
My God, I look to thee for tenderness Such as I could not seek from any man, Or in a human heart fancy or plan--A something deepest prayer will not express:
Lord, with thy breath blow on my being's fires, Until, even to the soul with self-love wan, I yield the primal love, that no return desires.
9.
Only no word of mine must ever foster The self that in a brother's bosom gnaws;
I may not fondle failing, nor the boaster Encourage with the breath of my applause.
Weakness needs pity, sometimes love's rebuke;
Strength only sympathy deserves and draws--And grows by every faithful loving look.
10.
'Tis but as men draw nigh to thee, my Lord, They can draw nigh each other and not hurt.
Who with the gospel of thy peace are girt, The belt from which doth hang the Spirit's sword, Shall breathe on dead bones, and the bones shall live, Sweet poison to the evil self shall give, And, clean themselves, lift men clean from the mire abhorred.
11.
My Lord, I have no clothes to come to thee;
My shoes are pierced and broken with the road;
I am torn and weathered, wounded with the goad, And soiled with tugging at my weary load:
The more I need thee! A very prodigal I stagger into thy presence, Lord of me:
One look, my Christ, and at thy feet I fall!
12.
Why should I still hang back, like one in a dream, Who vainly strives to clothe himself aright, That in great presence he may seemly seem?
Why call up feeling?--dress me in the faint, Worn, faded, cast-off nimbus of some saint?
Why of old mood bring back a ghostly gleam--While there He waits, love's heart and loss's blight!
13.
Son of the Father, elder brother mine, See thy poor brother's plight; See how he stands Defiled and feeble, hanging down his hands!
Make me clean, brother, with thy burning shine;
>From thy rich treasures, householder divine, Bring forth fair garments, old and new, I pray, And like thy brother dress me, in the old home-bred way.
14.
My prayer-bird was cold--would not away, Although I set it on the edge of the nest.
Then I bethought me of the story old--Love-fact or loving fable, thou know'st best--How, when the children had made sparrows of clay, Thou mad'st them birds, with wings to flutter and fold:
Take, Lord, my prayer in thy hand, and make it pray.
15.
My poor clay-sparrow seems turned to a stone, And from my heart will neither fly nor run.
I cannot feel as thou and I both would, But, Father, I am willing--make me good.
What art thou father for, but to help thy son?