Thus when we seek our buried innocence With bitter myrrh and grey-leaved rosemary, And writhing doubts delay Our steps towards the tomb of our desire, Do Thou, O Lord, our musing eyes inspire To see the stone is rolled away, And find that self has thrown its grave-clothes hence And risen to live free.
“LO, I am with you alway.” Thus He spake Girt with the zone of His disciples’ love, And straightway, like the nascent flames that wake Upon a placid hearth, He soars above. Forlorn they cannot move; Their eyes are voyaging to track the Friend Who promised to be with them till the end.
Once, the last once, His scar-gemmed Hand He lifts, The Hand that twined the children to His knee, Once downward bends the pitying Eye that sifts Our chaff and grain for all eternity: The blue immensity Robes its Creator in a cope of light, A cloud receives Him from their upturned sight.
Thou “alway with us”? Do the brakes of thorn No more entangle our tormented earth, Do women travail less when babes are born, Costs it less sweat for men to fight with dearth, Is life one Eden mirth, Moves there more laughter on the purple sea, Or richer gold across the rippling lea?
I care not: but we know, O Friend of friends, Thou throned above art by our weary side, The light that upward sailed with Thee descends To be our morn undimmed by night or tide; And Thou, eternal Guide, Art not content to lead us to thy goal, But buildest heaven in the broken soul.
O SMILE upon the mirror of the world, O Bearer of the censer whence is curled The fragrant breath of watered trees at eve, And fires that slowly in the sunrise weave.
Thou art the Why within the universe, Thou fillest hidden caves which seas immerse, Thou sowest flowers upon the snow-bound hills, And teachest music to the listening rills.
Thou art the Guide of man’s supreme ascent From sullen shapes that through the forest bent, To minds that sift the sovran right from wrong And forms more perfect than a polished song.
The lily sceptre of sweet virgin love Is thine; the rosy coronet above The bridal brow is thine; from Thee the might Of infant eyes, like stars that calm the night.
Thou art the Spirit of insurgent truth, Thou givest buried lore a second youth, Thou makest charity with wisdom grow, And provest falsehood but a losing throw.