For centuries have we been stupid, Lord,
And to thy meaning not a little blind;
True, we have daily prayed, Thy kingdom come,
And waited idly on the words, resigned
To leave fulfillment unto thee alone.
Yet scanning them in fuller later light,
We see thou didst appoint for us a share
To haste that coming, had we heard aright.
We have remembered thee at seasons, Lord,
With broken bread and sacramental wine,
Deeming the action meant observance full,—
That outward symbol was the rite divine.
With reverent hearts and holden eyes we bent
Before thy altar in communion blest;
Then wondered that the kingdom was delayed
When word and sign thy memory confessed.
But ah, dear Lord, our eyes are now unclosed.
And for our hearts earth's baneful rest is ceased.
We comprehend the import of those words
Spoken by thee at thy last paschal feast.
This is my broken body, thou declared,
As bread was offered; and when passed the wine:
This is my blood of the new testament;
Drink all of it, yea, all, ye friends of mine.
