3.

I have not knowledge, wisdom, insight, thought, Nor understanding, fit to justify Thee in thy work, O Perfect. Thou hast brought Me up to this--and, lo! what thou hast wrought, I cannot call it good. But I can cry-- "O enemy, the maker hath not done; One day thou shalt behold, and from the sight wilt run."

4.

The faith I will, aside is easily bent; But of thy love, my G.o.d, one glimpse alone Can make me absolutely confident-- With faith, hope, joy, in love responsive blent.

My soul then, in the vision mighty grown, Its father and its fate securely known, Falls on thy bosom with exultant moan.

5.

Thou workest perfectly. And if it seem Some things are not so well, 'tis but because They are too loving-deep, too lofty-wise, For me, poor child, to understand their laws: My highest wisdom half is but a dream; My love runs helpless like a falling stream: Thy good embraces ill, and lo! its illness dies!

6.

From sleep I wake, and wake to think of thee.

But wherefore not with sudden glorious glee?

Why burst not gracious on me heaven and earth In all the splendour of a new-day-birth?

Why hangs a cloud betwixt my lord and me?

The moment that my eyes the morning greet, My soul should panting rush to clasp thy father-feet.

7.

Is it because it is not thou I see, But only my poor, blotted fancy of thee?

Oh! never till thyself reveal thy face, Shall I be flooded with life's vital grace.

Oh make my mirror-heart thy shining-place, And then my soul, awaking with the morn, Shall be a waking joy, eternally new-born.

8.

Lord, in my silver is much metal base, Else should my being by this time have shown Thee thy own self therein. Therefore do I Wake in the furnace. I know thou sittest by, Refining--look, keep looking in to try Thy silver; master, look and see thy face, Else here I lie for ever, blank as any stone.

9.

But when in the dim silver thou dost look, I do behold thy face, though blurred and faint.

Oh joy! no flaw in me thy grace will brook, But still refine: slow shall the silver pa.s.s From bright to brighter, till, sans spot or taint, Love, well content, shall see no speck of bra.s.s, And I his perfect face shall hold as in a gla.s.s.

10.

With every morn my life afresh must break The crust of self, gathered about me fresh; That thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake The darkness out of me, and rend the mesh The spider-devils spin out of the flesh-- Eager to net the soul before it wake, That it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake.

11.

'Tis that I am not good--that is enough; I pry no farther--that is not the way.

Here, O my potter, is thy making stuff!

Set thy wheel going; let it whir and play.

The chips in me, the stones, the straws, the sand, Cast them out with fine separating hand, And make a vessel of thy yielding clay.

12.

What if it take a thousand years to make me, So me he leave not, angry, on the floor!-- Nay, thou art never angry!--that would break me!

Would I tried never thy dear patience sore, But were as good as thou couldst well expect me, Whilst thou dost make, I mar, and thou correct me!

Then were I now content, waiting for something more.

13.

Only, my G.o.d, see thou that I content thee-- Oh, take thy own content upon me, G.o.d!

Ah, never, never, sure, wilt thou repent thee, That thou hast called thy Adam from the clod!

Yet must I mourn that thou shouldst ever find me One moment sluggish, needing more of the rod Than thou didst think when thy desire designed me.

14.

My G.o.d, it troubles me I am not better.

More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown.

My Father, help me--am I not thine own?

Lo, other lords have had dominion o'er me, But now thy will alone I set before me: Thy own heart's life--Lord, thou wilt not abhor me!

15.

In youth, when once again I had set out To find thee, Lord, my life, my liberty, A window now and then, clouds all about, Would open into heaven: my heart forlorn First all would tremble with a solemn glee, Then, whelmed in peace, rest like a man outworn, That sees the dawn slow part the closed lids of the morn.

16.

Now I grow old, and the soft-gathered years Have calmed, yea dulled the heart's swift fluttering beat; But a quiet hope that keeps its household seat Is better than recurrent glories fleet.

To know thee, Lord, is worth a many tears; And when this mildew, age, has dried away, My heart will beat again as young and strong and gay.

17.

Stronger and gayer tenfold!--but, O friends, Not for itself, nor any h.o.a.rded bliss.

I see but vaguely whither my being tends, All vaguely spy a glory shadow-blent, Vaguely desire the "individual kiss;"

But when I think of G.o.d, a large content Fills the dull air of my gray cloudy tent.

18.

Father of me, thou art my bliss secure.

Make of me, maker, whatsoe'er thou wilt.

Let fancy's wings hang moulting, hope grow poor, And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt-- I lose no time to reason it plain and clear, But fly to thee, my life's perfection dear:-- Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.

19.

This utterance of spirit through still thought, This forming of heart-stuff in moulds of brain, Is helpful to the soul by which 'tis wrought, The shape reacting on the heart again; But when I am quite old, and words are slow, Like dying things that keep their holes for woe, And memory's withering tendrils clasp with effort vain?

20.

Thou, then as now, no less wilt be my life, And I shall know it better than before, Praying and trusting, hoping, claiming more.

From effort vain, sick foil, and bootless strife, I shall, with childness fresh, look up to thee; Thou, seeing thy child with age enc.u.mbered sore, Wilt round him bend thine arm more carefully.

21.

And when grim Death doth take me by the throat, Thou wilt have pity on thy handiwork; Thou wilt not let him on my suffering gloat, But draw my soul out--gladder than man or boy, When thy saved creatures from the narrow ark Rushed out, and leaped and laughed and cried for joy, And the great rainbow strode across the dark.