Poems

Pierced with heart-famine to behold The storied prophet who of old Gave life again unto the dead, I went afar to find his way; To follow him, as even they Of self-bound hands and holden eyes Who, drawing nigh him in the press, Were healed of searing sin's duress. I crossed a fretted Galilee Of tidal fear—a self-pent sea; I searched the blue Judaean hills, The Temple's wreck and waste of stone.

The things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal. —2 Corinthians, 5: 18.

Rise from thy couch, O drowsy mortal, rise, And lose not thus, in sleep, the wonder of A golden dawn-of-day! Yon roseate cliffs Encircle the still bay; and tenderly The sun doth gently touch a slumb'ring world. Hark! Ev'ry bird awakens with a song, And fragrant praise springs from each silent flower.

O ye rudderless wrecks that are tossing about On the sea in the wind and the wave. There's a light that is shining to banish your doubt, And to bid you take heart and be brave.

Within the shadow of the years Christ comes to me. He lifts my burdens, dries my tears Within the shadow of the years.

Giver of all good gifts, I thee implore: Open the eyes that still are closed and blind, Enlarge our hearts to know thee more and more The Soul and source of all,—eternal Mind,— The Father, Mother, God of all mankind. O Love divine, that holdest in thine hand This orbed earth, the countless stars of light, How can I hope to come and take my stand Immaculate and sinless in thy sight! 'Tis Love alone can wash my garment white.

Each heart has had its own Gethsemane, Where agony and gloom and darkness be; Its Pilate Hall, where justice seemed denied; Its Calvary Hill, where self was crucified; Its tomb, where that we deemed most precious had been laid In winding-sheet of memories which made The dead hope seem a thing of death the more, And a great stone was rolled against the door. But lo, the Angel of His Presence whispers, "Rise, Put on thy beauteous garments.

How shall I sing of Him who dwells on high, — The mighty Ruler of the starry sky, Who binds Orion's belt and yokes the Wain Septentrion, that ploughs the northern main, Who is the Life of every living thing, — How shall I sing? How shall I sing? I need not tell His glory to the stars, They know Him well, He guides their glittering cars; Nor need l breathe His name to fern or flower, He gives their sweetness every golden hour; His praise is proved by every blade and bell,— They know Him well, they love Him well. I'll tell my tale to every broken heart That waits and weeps alone, aside, apart; Hushed are the harps of song, blind lead the blind, And madness raves upon the roaring wind; Men tread the same sad path their fathers trod, Who knew not God: they know not God.

My gratitude to her Is shining in my heart with dew. My gratitude to her Clings like the scent of lavender.

Thou sweet, beloved will of God, My anchor-ground, and fortress-hill, My spirit's silent, fair abode. In thee I hide me and am still.