Chapter II

Whatso it be, howso it be, Amen. Blessed it is, believing, not to see. Now God knows all that is; and we shall, then, Whatso it be.

God’s Will is best for man whose will is free. God’s Will is better to us, yea, than ten Desires whereof He holds and weighs the key.

Amid her household cares He guides the wren, He guards the shifty mouse from poverty; He knows all wants, allots each where and when, Whatso it be.

Short is time, and only time is bleak; Gauge the exceeding height thou hast to climb: Long eternity is nigh to seek: Short is time.

Time is shortening with the wintry rime: Pray and watch and pray, girt up and meek; Praying, watching, praying, chime by chime.

Pray by silence if thou canst not speak: Time is shortening; pray on till the prime: Time is shortening; soul, fulfil thy week: Short is time.

For Each.

My harvest is done, its promise is ended, Weak and watery sets the sun, Day and night in one mist are blended, My harvest is done.

Long while running, how short when run, Time to eternity has descended, Timeless eternity has begun.

Was it the narrow way that I wended? Snares and pits was it mine to shun? The scythe has fallen, so long suspended, My harvest is done.

For All.

Man’s harvest is past, his summer is ended, Hope and fear are finished at last, Day hath descended, night hath ascended, Man’s harvest is past.

Time is fled that fleeted so fast: All the unmended remains unmended, The perfect, perfect: all lots are cast.

Waiting till earth and ocean be rended, Waiting for call of the trumpet blast, Each soul at goal of that way it wended,— Man’s harvest is past.

NEW JERUSALEM AND ITS CITIZENS

“The Holy City, New Jerusalem.”

Jerusalem is built of gold, Of crystal, pearl, and gem: Oh fair thy lustres manifold, Thou fair Jerusalem! Thy citizens who walk in white Have nought to do with day or night, And drink the river of delight.

Jerusalem makes melody For simple joy of heart; An organ of full compass she, One-tuned thro’ every part: While not to day or night belong Her matins and her evensong, The one thanksgiving of her throng.

Jerusalem a garden is, A garden of delight; Leaf, flower, and fruit make fair her trees, Which see not day or night: Beside her River clear and calm The Tree of Life grows with the Palm, For triumph and for food and balm.

Jerusalem, where song nor gem Nor fruit nor waters cease, God bring us to Jerusalem, God bring us home in peace; The strong who stand, the weak who fall, The first and last, the great and small, Home one by one, home one and all.

When wickedness is broken as a tree Paradise comes to light, ah holy land! Whence death has vanished like a shifting sand, And barrenness is banished with the sea. Its bulwarks are salvation fully manned, All gems it hath for glad variety, And pearls for pureness radiant glimmeringly, And gold for grandeur where all good is grand. An inner ring of saints meets linked above, And linked of angels is an outer ring; For voice of waters or for thunders’ voice Lo! harps and songs wherewith all saints rejoice, And all the trembling there of any string Is but a trembling of enraptured love.

Jerusalem of fire And gold and pearl and gem, Saints flock to fill thy choir, Jerusalem.

Lo, thrones thou hast for them; Desirous they desire Thy harp, thy diadem,

Thy bridal white attire, A palm-branch from thy stem: Thy holiness their hire, Jerusalem.

“She shall be brought unto the King.”

The King’s Daughter is all glorious within, Her clothing of wrought gold sets forth her bliss; Where the endless choruses of heaven begin The King’s Daughter is;

Perfect her notes in the perfect harmonies; With tears wiped away, no conscience of sin, Loss forgotten and sorrowful memories;

Alight with Cherubin, afire with Seraphin, Lily for pureness, rose for charities, With joy won and with joy evermore to win, The King’s Daughter is.

Who is this that cometh up not alone From the fiery-flying-serpent wilderness, Leaning upon her own Beloved One: Who is this?

Lo, the King of kings’ daughter, a high princess, Going home as bride to her Husband’s Throne, Virgin queen in perfected loveliness.

Her eyes a dove’s eyes and her voice a dove’s moan, She shows like a full moon for heavenliness: Eager saints and angels ask in heaven’s zone, Who is this?

Who sits with the King in His Throne? Not a slave but a Bride, With this King of all Greatness and Grace Who reigns not alone; His Glory her glory, where glorious she glows at His side Who sits with the King in His Throne.

She came from dim uttermost depths which no Angel hath known, Leviathan’s whirlpool and Dragon’s dominion worldwide, From the frost or the fire to Paradisiacal zone. Lo, she is fair as a dove, silvery, golden, dove-eyed: Lo, Dragon laments and Death laments, for their prey is flown: She dwells in the Vision of Peace, and her peace shall abide Who sits with the King in His Throne.

Antipas.

Hidden from the darkness of our mortal sight, Hidden in the Paradise of lovely light, Hidden in God’s Presence, worshipped face to face, Hidden in the sanctuary of Christ’s embrace. Up, O Wills! to track him home among the bless’d; Up, O Hearts! to know him in the joy of rest; Where no darkness more shall hide him from our sight, Where we shall be love with love, and light with light, Worshipping our God together face to face, Wishless in the sanctuary of Christ’s embrace.

“Beautiful for situation.”

A lovely city in a lovely land, Whose citizens are lovely, and whose King Is Very Love; to Whom all Angels sing; To Whom all saints sing crowned, their sacred band Saluting Love with palm-branch in their hand: Thither all doves on gold or silver wing Flock home thro’ agate windows glistering Set wide, and where pearl gates wide open stand. A bower of roses is not half so sweet, A cave of diamonds doth not glitter so, Nor Lebanon is fruitful set thereby: And thither thou, beloved, and thither I May set our heart and set our face and go, Faint yet pursuing, home on tireless feet.

Lord, by what inconceivable dim road Thou leadest man on footsore pilgrimage! Weariness is his rest from stage to stage, Brief halting-places are his sole abode. Onward he fares thro’ rivers overflowed, Thro’ deserts where all doleful creatures rage; Onward from year to year, from age to age, He groans and totters onward with his load. Behold how inconceivable his way; How tenfold inconceivable the goal, His goal of hope deferred, his promised peace: Yea, but behold him sitting down at ease, Refreshed in body and refreshed in soul, At rest from labour on the Sabbath Day.

“As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.”

“Golden haired, lily white, Will you pluck me lilies? Or will you show me where they grow, Show where the limpid rill is? But is your hair of gold or light, And is your foot of flake or fire, And have you wings rolled up from sight And songs to slake desire?”

“I pluck fresh flowers of Paradise, Lilies and roses red, A bending sceptre for my hand, A crown to crown my head. I sing my songs, I pluck my flowers Sweet-scented from their fragrant trees; I sing, we sing, amid the bowers And gather palm-branches.”

“Is there a path to Heaven My stumbling foot may tread? And will you show that way to go, That bower and blossom bed?” “The path to Heaven is steep and straight And scorched, but ends in shade of trees, Where yet a while we sing and wait And gather palm-branches.”

Cast down but not destroyed, chastened not slain: Thy Saints have lived that life, but how can I? I, who thro’ dread of death do daily die By daily foretaste of an unfelt pain. Lo, I depart who shall not come again; Lo, as a shadow I am flitting by; As a leaf trembling, as a wheel I fly, While death flies faster and my flight is vain. Chastened not slain, cast down but not destroyed: If thus Thy Saints have struggled home to peace, Why should not I take heart to be as they? They too pent passions in a house of clay, Fear and desire, and pangs and ecstasies; Yea, thus they joyed who now are overjoyed.

Lift up thine eyes to seek the invisible: Stir up thy heart to choose the still unseen: Strain up thy hope in glad perpetual green To scale the exceeding height where all saints dwell. —Saints, is it well with you?—Yea, it is well.— Where they have reaped, by faith kneel thou to glean: Because they stooped so low to reap, they lean Now over golden harps unspeakable. —But thou purblind and deafened, knowest thou Those glorious beauties unexperienced By ear or eye or by heart hitherto?— I know Whom I have trusted: wherefore now All amiable, accessible tho’ fenced, Golden Jerusalem floats full in view.

“Love is strong as Death.”

As flames that consume the mountains, as winds that coerce the sea, Thy men of renown show forth Thy might in the clutch of death: Down they go into silence, yet the Trump of the Jubilee Swells not Thy praise as swells it the breathless pause of their breath. What is the flame of their fire, if so I may catch the flame; What the strength of their strength, if also I may wax strong? The flaming fire of their strength is the love of Jesu’s Name, In Whom their death is life, their silence utters a song.

“Let them rejoice in their beds.”

Crimson as the rubies, crimson as the roses, Crimson as the sinking sun, Singing on his crimsoned bed each saint reposes, Fought his fight, his battle won; Till the rosy east the day of days discloses, All his work, save waiting, done. Far above the stars, while underneath the daisies, Resting, for his race is run, Unto Thee his heart each quiet saint upraises, God the Father, Spirit, Son; Unto Thee his heart, unto Thee his praises, O Lord God, the Three in One.

Slain in their high places: fallen on rest Where the eternal peace lights up their faces, In God’s sacred acre breast to breast:— Slain in their high places.

From all tribes, all families, all races, Gathered home together; east or west Sending home its tale of gifts and graces.

Twine, oh twine, heaven’s amaranth for their crest, Raise their praise while home their triumph paces; Kings by their own King of kings confessed, Slain in their high places.

“What hath God wrought!”

The shout of a King is among them. One day may I be Of that perfect communion of lovers contented and free In the land that is very far off, and far off from the sea.

The shout of the King is among them. One King and one song, One thunder of manifold voices harmonious and strong, One King and one love, and one shout of one worshipping throng.

“Before the throne, and before the Lamb.”

As the voice of many waters all saints sing as one, As the voice of an unclouded thundering; Unswayed by the changing moon and unswayed by the sun, As the voice of many waters all saints sing.

Circling round the rainbow of their perfect ring, Twelve thousand times twelve thousand voices in unison Swell the triumph, swell the praise of Christ the King.

Where raiment is white of blood-steeped linen slowly spun, Where crowns are golden of Love’s own largessing, Where eternally the ecstasy is but begun, As the voice of many waters all saints sing.

“He shall go no more out.”

Once within, within for evermore: There the long beatitudes begin: Overflows the still unwasting store, Once within.

Left without are death and doubt and sin; All man wrestled with and all he bore, Man who saved his life, skin after skin.

Blow the trumpet-blast unheard before, Shout the unheard-of shout for these who win, These, who cast their crowns on Heaven’s high floor Once within.

Yea, blessed and holy is he that hath part in the First Resurrection! We mark well his bulwarks, we set up his tokens, we gaze, even we, On this lustre of God and of Christ, this creature of flawless perfection: Yea, blessed and holy is he.

But what? an offscouring of earth, a wreck from the turbulent sea, A bloodstone unflinchingly hewn for the Temple’s eternal erection, One scattered and peeled, one sifted and chastened and scourged and set free?

Yea, this is that worshipful stone of the Wise Master Builder’s election, Yea, this is that King and that Priest where all Hallows bow down the knee, Yea, this man set nigh to the Throne is Jonathan of David’s delection, Yea, blessed and holy is he.

The joy of Saints, like incense turned to fire In golden censers, soars acceptable; And high their heavenly hallelujahs swell Desirous still with still-fulfilled desire. Sweet thrill the harpstrings of the heavenly choir, Most sweet their voice while love is all they tell; Where love is all in all, and all is well Because their work is love and love their hire. All robed in white and all with palm in hand, Crowns too they have of gold and thrones of gold; The street is golden which their feet have trod, Or on a sea of glass and fire they stand: And none of them is young, and none is old, Except as perfect by the Will of God.

What are these lovely ones, yea, what are these? Lo, these are they who for pure love of Christ Stripped off the trammels of soft silken ease, Beggaring themselves betimes, to be sufficed Throughout heaven’s one eternal day of peace: By golden streets, thro’ gates of pearl unpriced, They entered on the joys that will not cease, And found again all firstfruits sacrificed. And wherefore have you harps, and wherefore palms, And wherefore crowns, O ye who walk in white? Because our happy hearts are chanting psalms, Endless Te Deum for the ended fight; While thro’ the everlasting lapse of calms We cast our crowns before the Lamb our Might.

“The General Assembly and Church of the Firstborn.”

Bring me to see, Lord, bring me yet to see Those nations of Thy glory and Thy grace Who splendid in Thy splendour worship Thee. Light in all eyes, content in every face, Raptures and voices one while manifold, Love and are well-beloved the ransomed race:— Great mitred priests, great kings in crowns of gold, Patriarchs who head the army of their sons, Matrons and mothers by their own extolled, Wise and most harmless holy little ones, Virgins who, making merry, lead the dance, Full-breathed victorious racers from all runs, Home-comers out of every change and chance, Hermits restored to social neighbourhood, Aspects which reproduce One Countenance, Life-losers with their losses all made good, All blessed hungry and athirst sufficed, All who bore crosses round the Holy Rood, Friends, brethren, sisters, of Lord Jesus Christ.

“Every one that is perfect shall be as his master.”

How can one man, how can all men, How can we be like St. Paul, Like St. John, or like St. Peter, Like the least of all Blessed Saints? for we are small. Love can make us like St. Peter, Love can make us like St. Paul, Love can make us like the blessed Bosom friend of all, Great St. John, tho’ we are small. Love which clings and trusts and worships, Love which rises from a fall, Love which, prompting glad obedience, Labours most of all, Love makes great the great and small.

“As dying, and behold we live!” So live the Saints while time is flying; Make all they make, give all they give, As dying; Bear all they bear without replying; They grieve as tho’ they did not grieve, Uplifting praise with prayer and sighing. Patient thro’ life’s long-drawn reprieve, Aloof from strife, at peace from crying, The morrow to its day they leave, As dying.

“So great a cloud of Witnesses.”

I think of the saints I have known, and lift up mine eyes To the far-away home of beautiful Paradise, Where the song of saints gives voice to an undividing sea On whose plain their feet stand firm while they keep their jubilee.

As the sound of waters their voice, as the sound of thunderings, While they all at once rejoice, while all sing and while each one sings; Where more saints flock in, and more, and yet more, and again yet more, And not one turns back to depart thro’ the open entrance-door.

O sights of our lovely earth, O sound of our earthly sea, Speak to me of Paradise, of all blessed saints to me: Or keep silence touching them, and speak to my heart alone Of the Saint of saints, the King of kings, the Lamb on the Throne.

Our Mothers, lovely women pitiful; Our Sisters, gracious in their life and death; To us each unforgotten memory saith: “Learn as we learned in life’s sufficient school, Work as we worked in patience of our rule, Walk as we walked, much less by sight than faith, Hope as we hoped, despite our slips and scathe, Fearful in joy and confident in dule.” I know not if they see us or can see; But if they see us in our painful day, How looking back to earth from Paradise Do tears not gather in those loving eyes?— Ah, happy eyes! whose tears are wiped away Whether or not you bear to look on me.

Safe where I cannot lie yet, Safe where I here to lie too, Safe from the fume and the fret; You, and you, Whom I never forget.

Safe from the frost and the snow. Safe from the storm and sun, Safe where the seeds wait to grow One by one And to come back in blow.

“It is well with the child?”

Lying a-dying. Have done with vain sighing: Life not lost tut treasured, God Almighty pleasured, God’s daughter fetched and carried, Christ’s bride betrothed and married. Our tender little dove Meek-eyed and simple, Our love goes home to Love: There shall she walk in white, Where God shall be the Light, And God the Temple.

Dear Angels and dear disembodied Saints Unseen around us, worshipping in rest, May wonder that man’s heart so often faints And his steps lag along the heavenly quest, What while his foolish fancy moulds and paints A fonder hope than all they prove for best; A lying hope which undermines and taints His soul, as sin and sloth make manifest. Sloth, and a lie, and sin: shall these suffice The unfathomable heart of craving man, That heart which being a deep calls to the deep? Behold how many like us rose and ran When Christ, life-giver, roused them from their sleep To rise and run and rest in Paradise!

“To every seed his own body.”

Bone to his bone, grain to his grain of dust: A numberless reunion shall make whole Each blessed body for its blessed soul, Refashioning the aspects of the just. Each saint who died must live afresh, and must Ascend resplendent in the aureole Of his own proper glory to his goal, As seeds their proper bodies all upthrust. Each with his own not with another’s grace, Each with his own not with another’s heart, Each with his own not with another’s face, Each dove-like soul mounts to his proper place:— O faces unforgotten! if to part Wrung sore, what will it be to re-embrace?

“What good shall my life do me?”

Have dead men long to wait?—

There is a certain term For their bodies to the worm And their souls at heaven gate. Dust to dust, clod to clod, These precious things of God, Trampled underfoot by man And beast the appointed years.—

Their longest life was but a span For change and smiles and tears. Is it worth while to live, Rejoice and grieve, Hope, fear, and die? Man with man, truth with lie, The slow show dwindles by: At last what shall we have Besides a grave?—

Lies and shows no more, No fear, no pain, But after hope and sleep Dear joys again. Those who sowed shall reap: Those who bore The Cross shall wear the Crown: Those who clomb the steep There shall sit down.

The Shepherd of the sheep Feeds His flock there, In watered pastures fair They rest and leap. “Is it worth while to live?” Be of good cheer: Love casts out fear: Rise up, achieve.

SONGS FOR STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS.

“Her Seed; It shall bruise thy head.”

Astonished Heaven looked on when man was made, When fallen man reproved seemed half forgiven; Surely that oracle of hope first said, Astonished Heaven.

Even so while one by one lost souls are shriven, A mighty multitude of quickened dead; Christ’s love outnumbering ten times sevenfold seven.

Even so while man still tosses high his head, While still the All-Holy Spirit’s strife is striven;— Till one last trump shake earth, and undismayed Astonished Heaven.

“Judge nothing before the time.”

Love understands the mystery, whereof We can but spell a surface history: Love knows, remembers: let us trust in Love: Love understands the mystery.

Love weighs the event, the long pre-history, Measures the depth beneath, the height above, The mystery, with the ante-mystery.

To love and to be grieved befits a dove Silently telling her bead-history: Trust all to Love, be patient and approve: Love understands the mystery.

How great is little man! Sun, moon, and stars respond to him, Shine or grow dim Harmonious with his span.

How little is great man! More changeable than changeful moon, Nor half in tune With Heaven’s harmonious plan.

Ah, rich man! ah, poor man! Make ready for the testing day When wastes away What bears not fire or fan.

Thou heir of all things, man, Pursue the saints by heavenward track: They looked not back; Run thou, as erst they ran.

Little and great is man: Great if he will, or if he will A pigmy still; For what he will he can.

Man’s life is but a working day Whose tasks are set aright: A time to work, a time to pray, And then a quiet night. And then, please God, a quiet night Where palms are green and robes are white; A long-drawn breath, a balm for sorrow, And all things lovely on the morrow.

If not with hope of life, Begin with fear of death: Strive the tremendous life-long strife Breath after breath.

Bleed on beneath the rod; Weep on until thou see; Turn fear and hope to love of God Who loveth thee.

Turn all to love, poor soul; Be love thy watch and ward; Be love thy starting-point, thy goal, And thy reward.

“The day is at hand.”

Watch yet a while, Weep till that day shall dawn when thou shalt smile: Watch till the day When all save only Love shall pass away.

Then Love rejoicing shall forget to weep, Shall hope or fear no more, or watch or sleep, But only love and stint not, deep beyond deep. Now we sow love in tears, but then shall reap. Have patience as True Love’s own flock of sheep. Have patience with His Love Who served for us, Who reigns for us above.

“Endure bareness.”

A cold wind stirs the blackthorn To burgeon and to blow, Besprinkling half-green hedges With flakes and sprays of snow.

Thro’ coldness and thro’ keenness, Dear hearts, take comfort so: Somewhere or other doubtless These make the blackthorn blow.

“Whither the Tribes go up, even the Tribes of the Lord.”

Light is our sorrow for it ends to-morrow, Light is our death which cannot hold us fast; So brief a sorrow can be scarcely sorrow, Or death be death so quickly past.

One night, no more, of pain that turns to pleasure, One night, no more, of weeping weeping sore; And then the heaped-up measure beyond measure, In quietness for evermore.

Our face is set like flint against our trouble, Yet many things there are which comfort us; This bubble is a rainbow-coloured bubble, This bubble-life tumultuous.

Our sails are set to cross the tossing river, Our face is set to reach Jerusalem; We toil awhile, but then we rest for ever, Sing with all Saints and rest with them.

Where never tempest heaveth, Nor sorrow grieveth, Nor death bereaveth, Nor hope deceiveth, Sleep.

Where never shame bewaileth, Nor serpent traileth, Nor death prevaileth, Nor harvest faileth, Reap.

Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould, Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unrolled, See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold, “The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold.”

Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was tolled: Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold.

“What is that to thee? follow thou me.”

Lie still, my restive heart, lie still: God’s Word to thee saith, “Wait and bear.” The good which He appoints is good, The good which He denies were ill: Yea, subtle comfort is thy care, Thy hurt a help not understood.

“Friend, go up higher,” to one: to one, “Friend, enter thou My joy,” He saith: To one, “Be faithful unto death.” For some a wilderness doth flower, Or day’s work in one hour is done:— “But thou, could’st thou not watch one hour?”

Lord, I had chosen another lot, But then I had not chosen well; Thy choice and only Thine is good: No different lot, search heaven or hell, Had blessed me fully understood; None other, which Thou orderest not.

“Worship God.”

Lord, if Thy word had been “Worship Me not, For I than thou am holier: draw not near:” We had besieged Thy Face with prayer and tear, And manifold abasement in our lot, Our crooked ground, our thorned and thistled plot; Envious of flawless Angels in their sphere, Envious of brutes, and envious of the mere Unliving and undying unbegot. But now Thou hast said, “Worship Me, and give Thy heart to Me, My child:” now therefore we Think twice before we stoop to worship Thee: We proffer half a heart while life is strong And strung with hope; so sweet it is to live! Wilt Thou not wait? Yea, Thou hast waited long.

“Afterward he repented, and went.”

Lord, when my heart was whole I kept it back And grudged to give it Thee. Now then that it is broken, must I lack Thy kind word “Give it Me”? Silence would be but just, and Thou art just. Yet since I lie here shattered in the dust, With still an eye to lift to Thee, A broken heart to give, I think that Thou wilt bid me live, And answer “Give it Me.”

“Are they not all Ministering Spirits?”

Lord, whomsoever Thou shalt send to me, Let that same be Mine Angel predilect: Veiled or unveiled, benignant or austere, Aloof or near; Thine, therefore mine, elect.

So may my soul nurse patience day by day, Watch on and pray Obedient and at peace; Living a lonely life in hope, in faith; Loving till death, When life, not love, shall cease.

...Lo, thou mine Angel with transfigured face Brimful of grace, Brimful of love for me! Did I misdoubt thee all that weary while, Thee with a smile For me as I for thee?

Our life is long. Not so, wise Angels say Who watch us waste it, trembling while they weigh Against eternity one squandered day.

Our life is long. Not so, the Saints protest, Filled full of consolation and of rest: “Short ill, long good, one long unending best.”

Our life is long. Christ’s word sounds different: “Night cometh: no more work when day is spent.” Repent and work to-day, work and repent.

Lord, make us like Thy Host who day nor night Rest not from adoration, their delight, Crying “Holy, Holy, Holy,” in the height.

Lord, make us like Thy Saints who wait and long Contented: bound in hope and freed from wrong They speed (may be) their vigil with a song.

Lord, make us like Thyself: for thirty-three Slow years of toil seemed not too long to Thee, That where Thou art there Thy Beloved might be.

Lord, what have I to offer? sickening fear And a heart-breaking loss. Are these the cross Thou givest me? then dear I will account this cross.

If this is all I have, accept even this Poor priceless offering, A quaking heart with all that therein is, O Thou my thorn-crowned King.

Accept the whole, my God, accept my heart And its own love within: Wilt Thou accept us and not sift apart? —Only sift out my sin.

Joy is but sorrow, While we know It ends to-morrow:— Even so! Joy with lifted veil Shows a face as pale As the fair changing moon so fair and frail.

Pain is but pleasure, If we know It heaps up treasure:— Even so! Turn, transfigured Pain, Sweetheart, turn again, For fair thou art as moonrise after rain.

Can I know it?—Nay.— Shall I know it?—Yea, When all mists have cleared away Forever and aye.—

Why not then to-day?— Who hath said thee nay? Lift a hopeful heart and pray In a humble way.—

Other hearts are gay.— Ask not joy to-day: Toil to-day along thy way Keeping grudge at bay.—

On a past May-day Flowers pranked all the way; Nightingales sang out their say On a night of May.—

Dost thou covet May On an Autumn day? Foolish memory saith its say Of sweets past away.—

Gone the bloom of May, Autumn beareth bay: Flowerless wreath for head grown grey Seemly were to-day.—

Dost thou covet bay? Ask it not to-day: Rather for a palm-branch pray; None will say thee nay.

“When my heart is vexed I will complain.”

“The fields are white to harvest, look and see, Are white abundantly. The full-orbed harvest moon shines clear, The harvest time draws near, Be of good cheer.”

“Ah, woe is me! I have no heart for harvest time, Grown sick with hope deferred from chime to chime.”

“But Christ can give thee heart Who loveth thee: Can set thee in the eternal ecstasy Of His great jubilee: Can give thee dancing heart and shining face, And lips filled full of grace, And pleasures as the rivers and the sea. Who knocketh at His door He welcomes evermore: Kneel down before That ever-open door (The time is short) and smite Thy breast, and pray with all thy might.”

“What shall I say?” “Nay, pray. Tho’ one but say Thy Will ’be done,’ He hath not lost his day At set of sun.”

“Praying always.”

After midnight, in the dark The clock strikes one, New day has begun. Look up and hark! With singing heart forestall the carolling lark.

After mid-day, in the light The clock strikes one, Day-fall has begun. Cast up, set right The day’s account against the on-coming night.

After noon and night, one day For ever one Ends not, once begun. Whither away, O brothers and O sisters? Pause and pray.

“As thy days, so shall thy strength be.”

Day that hath no tinge of night, Night that hath no tinge of day, These at last will come to sight Not to fade away.

This is twilight that we know, Scarcely night and scarcely day; This hath been from long ago Shed around man’s way:

Step by step to utter night, Step by step to perfect day, To the Left Hand or the Right Leading all away.

This is twilight: be it so; Suited to our strength our day: Let us follow on to know, Patient by the way.

A heavy heart, if ever heart was heavy, I offer Thee this heavy heart of me. Are such as this the hearts Thou art fain to levy To do and dare for Thee, to bleed for Thee? Ah, blessed heaviness, if such they be!

Time was I bloomed with blossom and stood leafy How long before the fruit, if fruit there be: Lord, if by bearing fruit my heart grows heavy, Leafless and bloomless yet accept of me The stripped fruit-bearing heart I offer Thee.

Lifted to Thee my heart weighs not so heavy. It leaps and lightens lifted up to Thee; It sings, it hopes to sing amid the bevy Of thousand thousand choirs that sing, and see Thy Face, me loving, for Thou lovest me.

If love is not worth loving, then life is not worth living, Nor aught is worth remembering but well forgot; For store is not worth storing and gifts are not worth giving, If love is not;

And idly cold is death-cold, and life-heat idly hot, And vain is any offering and vainer our receiving, And vanity of vanities is all our lot.

Better than life’s heaving heart is death’s heart unheaving, Better than the opening leaves are the leaves that rot, For there is nothing left worth achieving or retrieving, If love is not.

What is it Jesus saith unto the soul? “Take up the Cross, and come and follow Me.” One word He saith to all men: none may be Without a cross yet hope to touch the goal. Then heave it bravely up, and brace thy whole Body to bear; it will not weigh on thee Past strength; or if it crush thee to thy knee Take heart of grace, for grace shall be thy dole.

Give thanks to-day, and let to-morrow take Heed to itself; to-day imports thee more, To-morrow may not dawn like yesterday: Until that unknown morrow go thy way, Suffer and work and strive for Jesus’ sake:— Who tells thee what to-morrow keeps in store?

They lie at rest, our blessed dead; The dews drop cool above their head, They knew not when fleet summer fled.

Together all, yet each alone; Each laid at rest beneath his own Smooth turf or white allotted stone.

When shall our slumber sink so deep, And eyes that wept and eyes that weep Weep not in the sufficient sleep?

God be with you, our great and small, Our loves, our best beloved of all, Our own beyond the salt sea-wall.

“Ye that fear him, both small and great.”

Great or small below, Great or small above; Be we Thine, whom Thou dost know And love;

First or last on earth, First or last in Heaven; Only weighted with Thy worth, And shriven.

Wise or ignorant, Strong or weak; Amen; Sifted now, cast down, in want:— But then?

Then,—when sun nor moon, Time nor death, finds place, Seeing in the eternal noon Thy Face:

Then,—when tears and sighing, Changes, sorrows, cease; Living by Thy Life undying In peace:

Then,—when all creation Keeps its jubilee, Crowned amid Thy holy nation; Crowned, discrowned, in adoration Of Thee.

“Called to be Saints.”

The lowest place. Ah, Lord, how steep and high That lowest place whereon a saint shall sit! Which of us halting, trembling, pressing nigh, Shall quite attain to it?

Yet, Lord, Thou pressest nigh to hail and grace Some happy soul, it may be still unfit For Right Hand or for Left Hand, but whose place Waits there prepared for it.

The sinner’s own fault? So it was. If every own fault found us out, Dogged us and hedged us round about, What comfort should we take because Not half our due we thus wrung out?

Clearly his own fault. Yet I think My fault in part, who did not pray But lagged and would not lead the way. I, haply, proved his missing link. God help us both to mend and pray.

Who cares for earthly bread tho’ white? Nay, heavenly sheaf of harvest corn! Who cares for earthly crown to-night? Nay, heavenly crown to-morrow morn! I will not wander left or right, The straightest road is shortest too; And since we hold all hope in view And triumph where is no more pain, To-night I bid good night to you And bid you meet me there again.

Laughing Life cries at the feast,— Craving Death cries at the door,— “Fish, or fowl, or fatted beast?” “Come with me, thy feast is o’er.”— “Wreathe the violets.”—“Watch them fade.”— “I am sunshine.”—“I am shade: I am the sun-burying west.”— “I am pleasure.”—“I am rest: Come with me, for I am best.”

“The end is net yet.”

Home by different ways. Yet all Homeward bound thro’ prayer and praise, Young with old, and great with small, Home by different ways.

Many nights and many days Wind must bluster, rain must fall, Quake the quicksand, shift the haze.

Life hath called and death will call Saints who praying kneel at gaze, Ford the flood or leap the wall, Home by different ways.

Who would wish back the Saints upon our rough Wearisome road? Wish back a breathless soul Just at the goal? My soul, praise God For all dear souls which have enough.

I would not fetch one back to hope with me A hope deferred, To taste a cup that slips From thirsting lips:— Hath he not heard And seen what was to hear and see?

How could I stand to answer the rebuke If one should say: “O friend of little faith, Good was my death, And good my day Of rest, and good the sleep I took”?

“That which hath been is named already, and it is known that it is Man.”

“Eye hath not seen”:—yet man hath known and weighed A hundred thousand marvels that have been: What is it which (the Word of Truth hath said) Eye hath not seen?

“Ear hath not heard:”—yet harpings of delight, Trumpets of triumph, song and spoken word, Man knows them all: what lovelier, loftier might Hath ear not heard?

“Nor heart conceived:”—yet man hath now desired Beyond all reach, beyond his hope believed, Loved beyond death: what fire shall yet be fired No heart conceived?

“Deep calls to deep:”—man’s depth would be despair But for God’s deeper depth: we sow to reap, Have patience, wait, betake ourselves to prayer: Deep answereth deep.

Of each sad word which is more sorrowful, “Sorrow” or “Disappointment”? I have heard Subtle inflections baffling subtlest rule, Of each sad word.

Sorrow can mourn: and lo! a mourning bird Sings sweetly to sweet echoes of its dule, While silent disappointment broods unstirred.

Yet both nurse hope, where Penitence keeps school Who makes fools wise and saints of them that erred: Wise men shape stepping stone, or curb, or tool, Of each sad word.

“I see that all things come to an end.”