Volume Ii Part 54 (1/2)
Thy hand upon it press.
My Night! my Day!
Swift night and day betwixt, my world doth reel: Potter, take not thy hand from off the clay That whirls upon thy wheel.
O Heart, I cry For love and life, pardon and hope and strength!
O Father, I am thine; I shall not die, But I shall sleep at length!
_SONG-SERMON_.
Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man.
From us, not thee, come all our wrongs; Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs: With small-cord whips and scorpion thongs Thou lay'st on every ill thy ban.
Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man.
_A DREAM-SONG_.
The stars are spinning their threads, And the clouds are the dust that flies, And the suns are weaving them up For the day when the sleepers arise.
The ocean in music rolls, The gems are turning to eyes, And the trees are gathering souls For the day when the sleepers arise.
The weepers are learning to smile, And laughter to glean the sighs, And hearts to bury their care and guile For the day when the sleepers arise.
Oh, the dews and the moths and the daisy-red, The larks and the glimmers and flows!
The lilies and sparrows and daily bread, And the something that n.o.body knows!
_CHRISTMAS, 1880._
Great-hearted child, thy very being _The Son_, Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;-- For who is prodigal but he who has gone Far from the true to heart it with the false?-- Who, who but thou, that, from the animals', Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own, Can tell what it would be to be alone!
Alone! No father!--At the very thought Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast; A death in death for thee it almost wrought!
But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last, And call'dst out _Father_ ere thy spirit pa.s.sed, Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow, But doing his will who greater is than thou.
That we might know him, thou didst come and live; That we might find him, thou didst come and die; The son-heart, brother, thy son-being give-- We too would love the father perfectly, And to his bosom go back with the cry, Father, into thy hands I give the heart Which left thee but to learn how good thou art!
There are but two in all the universe-- The father and his children--not a third; Nor, all the weary time, fell any curse!
Not once dropped from its nest an unfledged bird But thou wast with it! Never sorrow stirred But a love-pull it was upon the chain That draws the children to the father again!
O Jesus Christ, babe, man, eternal son, Take pity! we are poor where thou art rich: Our hearts are small; and yet there is not one In all thy father's noisy nursery which, Merry, or mourning in its narrow niche, Needs not thy father's heart, this very now, With all his being's being, even as thou!
_RONDEL_.
I do not know thy final will, It is too good for me to know: Thou willest that I mercy show, That I take heed and do no ill, That I the needy warm and fill, Nor stones at any sinner throw; But I know not thy final will-- It is too good for me to know.
I know thy love unspeakable-- For love's sake able to send woe!