Thou wilt interpret life to me, and men, Art, nature, yea, my own soul's mysteries— Bringing, truth out, clear-joyous, to my ken, Fair as the morn trampling the dull night. Then The lone hill-side shall hear exultant cries; The joyous see me joy, the weeping weep; The watching smile, as Death breathes on me his cold sleep.
That thou art nowhere to be found, agree Wise men, whose eyes are but for surfaces; Men with eyes opened by the second birth, To whom the seen, husk of the unseen is, Descry thee soul of everything on earth. Who know thy ends, thy means and motions see: Eyes made for glory soon discover thee.
My Lord, I find that nothing else will do, But follow where thou goest, sit at thy feet, And where I have thee not, still run to meet. Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns, Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns, If thou, the Truth, do not make them the true: Thou art my life, O Christ, and nothing else will do.
Back still it comes to this: there was a man Who said, "I am the truth, the life, the way:"— Shall I pass on, or shall I stop and hear?— "Come to the Father but by me none can:" What then is this?—am I not also one Of those who live in fatherless dismay? I stand, I look, I listen, I draw near.
The worst power of an evil mood is this— It makes the bastard self seem in the right, Self, self the end, the goal of human bliss. But if the Christ-self in us be the might Of saving God, why should I spend my force With a dark thing to reason of the light— Not push it rough aside, and hold obedient course?
O Lord, I have been talking to the people; Thought's wheels have round me whirled a fiery zone, And the recoil of my words' airy ripple My heart unheedful has puffed up and blown. Therefore I cast myself before thee prone: Lay cool hands on my burning brain, and press From my weak heart the swelling emptiness.
Come to me, Lord: I will not speculate how, Nor think at which door I would have thee appear, Nor put off calling till my floors be swept, But cry, "Come, Lord, come any way, come now." Doors, windows, I throw wide; my head I bow, And sit like some one who so long has slept That he knows nothing till his life draw near.
Not, Lord, because I have done well or ill; Not that my mind looks up to thee clear-eyed; Not that it struggles in fast cerements tied; Not that I need thee daily sorer still; Not that I wretched, wander from thy will; Not now for any cause to thee I cry, But this, that thou art thou, and here am I.
No sickness can come near to blast my health; My life depends not upon any meat; My bread comes not from any human tilth; No wings will grow upon my changeless wealth; Wrong cannot touch it, violence or deceit; Thou art my life, my health, my bank, my barn— And from all other gods thou plain dost warn.
