Cassell's National Library.

BY
REV. JOHN KEBLE.

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:

LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK & MELBOURNE.

1887.

John Keble, two years older than his friend Dr. Arnold of Rugby, three years older than Thomas Carlyle, and nine years older than John Henry Newman, was born in 1792 in Fairford, Gloucestershire. He was born in his father’s parsonage and was educated at home by his father until he went to college. His father then enrolled him at his own college at Oxford, Corpus Christi. Fully trained, Keble earned a strong reputation at his university for his character and scholarship and became a Fellow of Oriel. After a few years, he stepped back from his work at the university, although he couldn’t shake off the significant positive influence he had there. He returned home to assist his aging father with his ministry and took on the responsibilities of two small curacies. The father lived to be ninety. John Keble’s love for God and devotion to the Church were often expressed in poetry. On special days celebrated by the Church, he occasionally wrote short poems to genuinely convey his feelings about their spiritual significance. As the number of these poems grew, he felt inspired to similarly follow the entire course of the Christian Year as marked by the sequence of church services, which were arranged to present in order all the foundations of Christian faith and every aspect of a religious life. He hoped to create a book of poems that reflected faith and worship in every aspect and state of heavenly contemplation within the framework of the Christian Year, intending to revive life and energy in many minds that had grown numb.

In 1825, as the poems of the Christian Year were slowly coming together as a single collection, a brother was able to support John Keble in the devoted work for which his father had redirected him away from a promising university career. He then took a curacy in Hursley, about four or five miles from Winchester.

In 1827—when its author was thirty-five—“The Christian Year” was published. Like George Herbert, who he matched in piety though not in influence, Keble was deeply connected to the Church and wanted to invigorate worship by infusing each part of the ritual with a vitality that could elevate human life. The essence of true religion, with a strength greater than any earthly conflicts or debates, unites those who genuinely embody it. Putting aside all minor issues regarding the value of various earthly means to achieve a life hidden with Christ in God, Christians of all types who share this spirit have found support in “John Keble’s Christian Year” and remember its innocent author with warm affection. Within twenty-five years of its release, one hundred thousand copies had been sold. The book is still widely available, in many editions, and it may continue to thrive and inspire as long as time goes on.

Four years after "The Christian Year" was published, Keble was appointed (in 1831) to the usual five-year term as the Poetry Professor at Oxford. Two years into his role, he preached the Assize Sermon, focusing on the theme "National Apostasy." John Henry Newman, who had received his Fellowship at Oriel a few years before "The Christian Year" came out and was twenty-six when it was published, felt a strong motivation to revive the spirit of the Church by restoring life and meaning to all its practices, even the smallest details of its rituals. The great respect for the author of "The Christian Year" lent strength to the 1833 sermon on National Apostasy, marking it as the beginning of the Oxford movement known as Tractarian, named for the tracts issued by its supporters to inspire the clergy and the public; it is also referred to as Puseyite because it gained support from Dr. Pusey, who was the same age as J.H. Newman and was then the Regius Professor of Hebrew. There was a concern, which some anticipated, about the nature of this effort to breathe life into the Church; however, we all now acknowledge the sincere Christian passion that motivated the attempt to make lifeless ceremonial practices resonate again with spiritual energy, helping to rekindle light and warmth in our worship.

It was in 1833 that Keble, with one heartfelt sermon and a pure life behind it, along with this book that paved the way, gave a significant boost to the Oxford movement aimed at reforming the Church. The movement then officially started. However, Keble returned to his curacy at Hursley. Two years later, he became the vicar, and then he got married. His later life remained innocent and joyful. He and his wife passed away within two months of each other in the same year, 1866. He contributed to the efforts at Oxford by writing five of their Tracts, publishing a few sermons that supported the same cause, and editing a “Library of the Fathers.” In 1847, he released another collection of poems, “Lyra Innocentium,” which connected Church doctrines with the lives of children, whom he adored, even though his own marriage did not produce any children.

The power of Keble’s poetry comes from its honesty. A faithful and pure nature, strong in familial bonds, filled with love and respect for everything heavenly in our lives, seeks to fully dedicate human life with love and faith. There’s no unique gift of genius here. Keble doesn’t have the subtlety of thought or expression of George Herbert or Henry Vaughan. But his voice harmonizes with theirs, as every note is genuine and captivates us with its purity. His melodies are also part of the timeless chorus.

With a joyful sound of music, let's celebrate the New Year for our Library and for our lives.

January 1, 1887.

H.M.

When I was walking alone in silence,
I looked for a melody that was worthy of You,
My heart, still echoing with noisy worldly chatter,
Offered no sound of a holier music.

Prayer is the key, I told myself,
Strong requests must bring down the magic,
And so with a heart out of tune I weakly prayed,
Knocking at Heaven’s gate with a weary arm.

Fountain of Harmony! You blessed Spirit,
By whom the troubled waves of earthly sound
Are gathered into order, like the best
Some high-souled poet in his enchanted round

May compass, Power divine! Oh, spread Your
dove-like wing that chases confusion away,
Over my dark, empty spirit, calling forth
New worlds of music, melodies that will never fade.

Oh, happiest are those who stand before your altar,
With clean hands always raised high
The guiding Star of everyone looking for Your gate,
The everlasting lamp of divine Poetry.

Too weak, too unsure, for such a sacred task
Is my fragile arm, O Lord; but I really want
To trace the source of the light, I want to enjoy
The clear beam that makes Your path clear.

I can't expect to use David's harp to
Drive the evil spirit from a troubled soul;
It's enough for me if I can find some grace
To listen to the music and feel at peace.

Colors of the wealthy unfolding morning,
That, before the glorious sun rises,
By some gentle, unseen touch
Along his path are taught to grow;—

You rustling breeze so fresh and bright,
That dances forth at morning light,
And brushes past with joyful flow,
Waking each little leaf to glow;—

The fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
Through which deep grove and tangled stream
Offer thanks, for the soft rains in season,
Their tribute to the pleasant sky;—

Why waste your precious joys
On our ungrateful, joyless gaze;
Who wake to sin day by day,
Seldom experiencing Heaven and you?

Oh, joyfully timely, wisely timely,
Hearts that wake with the morning light!
Eyes that see the heavenly glow,
That forever makes everything new!

New every morning is the love
Our waking and getting up show;
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, strength, and thought.

New mercies come with each new day,
Surrounding us while we pray;
New dangers faced, new sins erased,
Fresh thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.

If on our daily journey our thoughts
Are focused on honoring everything we encounter,
We will discover new treasures, priceless in number,
And God will supply what we need for sacrifice.

Old friends and familiar places will look even better,
As we see more of Heaven in each of them:
A gentle glow of love and prayer
Will shine on every struggle and worry.

As for some beloved tune
We tirelessly ask, and ask again,
Always, in its beautiful collection,
Discovering a magic we’ve never heard before;

Such is the joy of peaceful souls,
When they have made a vow, and are steadfast,
Weighing the cost, in everything to see
Their God, in everything they deny themselves.

Oh, if we could understand that sacrifice,
What bright lights would shine around us!
How our hearts would speak with wisdom
Along Life’s dullest, dreariest path!

We don't have to say goodbye, locked away in a cell,
To our neighbor and our work,
Nor try to elevate ourselves too much
For sinful humans beneath the sky:

The small routines, the everyday tasks,
Would provide everything we need to ask;
Space to hold back; a path
To guide us closer to God each day.

Seek no more; let's be happy with these,
Let joy, comfort, and ease,
Come and go as Heaven wants:—
This is the secret of rest down here.

Only, O Lord, in Your dear love
Prepare us for perfect rest above;
And help us, this and every day,
To live more closely to how we pray.

It's gone, that bright and rounded glow,
Quickly fading from our longing view;
Your covering clouds have blocked the sight
Of the last soft pulse of shimmering light.

In darkness and fatigue
The traveler on his path must continue,
No light to see on tree or tower,
Passing the lonely hour.

Sun of my soul! You dear Savior,
It is not night if you are near:
Oh, may no earthly cloud arise
To hide you from your servant’s eyes!

When I look around at Your amazing creations below,
I cast my eager, joyful gaze,
Identifying Wisdom, Power, and Love,
In the earth or sky, in the stream or grove;—

Or by the light Your words reveal
Watch Time’s river as it flows,
Observing Your kind guidance,
Where it’s not too deep for human understanding:—

When I share sweet conversations with my dear friends,
And all the joys of life unfold;
Let my heart not burn inside me,
Unless I see You in everything.

When the gentle dews of peaceful sleep
Softly close my tired eyelids,
Let my last thought be, how sweet to rest
Forever on my Savior’s chest.

Abide with me from morning till evening,
For without You I cannot live:
Abide with me when night is near,
For without You I dare not die.

You Creator of light and dark,
Guide your own vessel through the storm:
In the midst of the roaring winter sea
We are safe in harbor if we have You.

The leaders of this Christian nation,
Set between You and us by Your will,—
Direct their actions, O Lord, correctly,
May everyone act as if in Your presence.

Oh! by Your own heavy burden, carried
So humbly up the hill of judgment,
Teach Your Priests to bear their daily struggles
Like Yours, and not see it as a loss!

If some lost child of Yours
Has rejected the divine call today,
Now, Lord, let the gracious work start;
Let him no longer remain in sin.

Watch over the sick: support the poor
With blessings from Your endless supply:
May every mourner’s sleep tonight,
Be as peaceful as a baby’s dream, pure and light.

Come close and bless us when we wake,
Before we set out on our way;
Until, in the ocean of Your love,
We lose ourselves in Heaven above.

Awake—once more the Gospel trumpet sounds—
Each year it grows louder,
Each year the signs of anger
Are building up around the Judge’s way,
Strange words coming true, and great deeds done,
And truth in the world is both hated and accepted.

Awake! Why stay in the beautiful city,
Loyal followers of the Cross and the thorny crown?
Get out of your lazy beds, for shame,
Rush to the eastern mountain like fire,
And don’t be surprised if you find your King in tears,
Even with the loud Hosanna ringing in His ears.

Alas! there's no need to wake them: long ago
They've gone out to join the Messiah's parade:
With sparkling robes and sweet garlands
They scatter the ground beneath His feet:
All but your hearts are there—O destined to show
The arrows aimed in Heaven for Faith that refuses to love!

Meanwhile, He moves through the adoring crowd,
Calm as the march of some majestic cloud,
That over wild scenes of ocean battles
Holds its steady course in Heaven afar:
Even so, heart-searching Lord, as the years go by,
You keep silent watch from Your triumphal throne:

Even so, the world crowds around to look
At the terrifying vision of the end times,
Forced to acknowledge You, but in their hearts
Ready to choose Barabbas instead:
“Hosanna” today, “Crucify” tomorrow,
The ever-changing weight of their rough, lawless shout.

Yet in that crowd of untrue, selfish hearts
Your sad eye rests upon Your faithful few,
Children and childlike souls are there,
Blind Bartimaeus’ humble prayer,
And Lazarus awakened from his four days’ sleep,
Living life again, to celebrate that Passover.

And right next to the olive-lined path
Stands the blessed home where Jesus chose to stay,
   The peaceful home, beloved by true Zeal
   And heavenly Contemplation,
Where Martha loved to serve with fitting respect,
And wiser Mary stayed at Your sacred feet.

Still through fading ages as they move,
You love to separate Your chosen few;
Scattered throughout the wasteland of years,
Many soft green islands show up:
Stop where we might on the empty path,
Some shelter is in view, some sacred safe home.

When harsh winds of doubt filled the sky,
And Love's last hope looked ready to fade away,
   How beautiful, how lonely the gentle light
   On the safe corners of Palestine!
Then Love returned to his childhood home,
And lifted his weary heart with the calming breeze of his homeland.

Years go by: once more the tide of crime
Has washed Your footsteps from the favored land
   Where will the holy Cross find a place?
   On a crowned monarch’s armored chest:
Like some bright angel over the dark scene,
Through court and camp he maintains his peaceful path to heaven.

A harsher sight indeed; an age of light,
Light without love, shines harshly on the weary eye:
   Oh, who can say how calm and sweet,
   Gentle Walton, shows your tranquil spot,
When tired from the stories of your times,
The eye finally discovers you in your peaceful rest?

Thus bad and good each provide their own warnings
Of His coming, whom no one can see and survive:
Faith’s ear, with a fearful yet peaceful pleasure,
Counts them like tiny bells ringing at night.
Keeping the heart alert until morning's light,
While this old world is carried to her funeral pyre.

But what do Heaven's warnings mean to hearts that hide away
In stubborn sleep, thickening every hour,
That pull their curtains tighter around,
The closer the trumpet's sound?
Lord, before our flickering lamps fade out and die,
Touch us with a correcting hand, and make us feel You near.

Not until the freezing wind is calm,
Until the sparkling stream flows freely,
And gentle breezes blow from summer skies,
Like a mother’s kiss over a sleeping baby’s eyes;
Before calls like these,
No sunny light awakens the trees,
Nor do the delicate flowers dare to reveal
Their petals to the uncertain light.

Why, then, in this gloomy winter,
With her skies all darkened by doubt and wrongdoing,
Does the Church lift her weary head,
As if her troubled time has passed?
Is she any less wise than spring leaves,
Or birds that huddle with their wings tucked away?
What does she see in this overcast sky
That draws her thoughtful gaze?

She has a captivating appeal, a fiery promise,
A commitment to love that never fades;
Through storms, earthquakes, and wars,
Through crashing waves and falling stars,
By every sign her Lord predicted,
She realizes the world is aging,
And through that final and greatest storm
Recognizes by faith her Savior’s presence.

Not any more certain does each delicate gem,
Set in the polished stem of the fig tree,
Indicate the gentle summer season,
Than these terrifying signs from Your mighty hand:
But, oh, weak hearts and dark spirits!
We notice the passing of the season without warning,
But overlook the Judge behind the door,
Despite all the teachings of sacred knowledge:

Yet He is here; beneath our roof
Each sound reaches His attentive ear:
Hush, foolish words, and negative thoughts,
Your Lord is listening: calm, be still.
Christ watches over a believer’s home,
Be quiet, “empty, deceptive laughter,”
Until in your changed voice is heard
A hint of Resignation’s tone.

But mostly you should lift your gaze
Above the world’s uncertain haze,
And look with a calm, steady eye
At the bright fields beyond the sky,
You, who bear your Lord’s mission
To prepare the way of mercy:
He calls you angels: let your effort
Be to live an angel's life on earth.

Don't think about resting; even if dreams are nice,
Get up, and move your feet towards heaven.
Isn't God's promise on your head,
To never fall back into a lazy bed,
Never again loosen your responsibilities,
Or let your lights flicker out and die,
Until, when the shadows are deepest,
You hear your Master’s midnight call?

What did you go out to see
Over the rough sandy plain,
Where the grand Jordan flows by many palm trees,
Or where Gennesaret’s waves
Delight in bathing the flowers,
That on her western slope breathe soothing breezes.

All through the summer night,
Those flowers red and bright
Spread their soft petals, unaware, to the breeze,
Like hermits standing still
Around the sacred hill,
Where once our Savior prayed upon His knees.

The Paschal moon above
Looks like a saint wandering,
Left glowing in the world with Christ alone;
Below, the lake’s calm surface
Sleeps gently in the embrace
Of mountains terraced high with mossy stone.

Here we can sit and dream
About the heavenly theme,
Until the past comes back to our souls;
Until on the grassy ground,
Where thousands were once fed,
We see the Creator of the world.

O cross no more the main,
Wandering so willfully and vainly,
To count the reeds that sway in the wind,
On aimless dalliances bound,
Like children looking around,
Who find no mark of divinity in God’s creations.

Bask not in the royal chamber,
   Or the sunlit hall of power,
Quickly pass Babel, and head to the holy land—
   From robes of purple dye
   Turn with an unblinded eye
To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s enchanted shore.

Or pick a spot
In Kedron’s famous valley,
Next to the springs of Love, which never fade;
Among the olives kneel
To feel the cold night breeze,
And watch the Moon that witnessed your Master’s suffering.

Then get up at dawn,
And take a reflective path,
Where the Temple’s majestic shade once rested,
With careful steps circling around
The city’s northern edge,
To the other sacred garden, where the Lord was buried.

Who alternates between
His death and victory,
Rising and falling like angel wings,
They, while seeming to roam,
Draw closer to home each day,
Their untraveled hearts still adore the King of kings.

Or, if they stay at home,
They are, day by day,
In spirit traveling through the glorious land,
Not for the fleeting whims of imagination,
Nor the rewards of honor,
Nor the knowledge of gifted prophets, nor the amazing power of science.

But more than the Prophet, more than Angels can adore With unveiled face, is He they go to seek: Blessed be God, Whose grace shows Him in every place To the simplest hearts of pure and humble pilgrims.

Of the bright things in earth and air
How little can the heart hold!
Soft shades and shining lights exist—
I know this well, but can't explain.

My eye feels unworthy to read
   A single page of Nature’s beautiful book;
It lies open before me, lovely spread—
   I can only cast a longing glance.

I can't capture in my memory
The scene, the look, I love the most—
Unchanged in themselves, in me they fade,
Or their shadows turn out weak or false.

In vain, with a dull and off-key ear,
I hang around soft Music’s space,
And deep down in my heart, I wish to hear
What she chooses to share with her own.

It’s all misty, both sight and sound—
I only know it’s fair and sweet—
It’s like wandering on enchanted ground
With a dizzy head and unsteady feet.

But wait! There may come a time
   When these dull ears will hear correctly
Melodies that surpass Earth’s sleepy sound,
   Just as Heaven outshines a candle’s light.

These eyes, now dazzled and weak,
At glancing specks in sunlight blink.
Will witness the King's full glory unfold,
And not shy away from the joyful sight:

In fearless love and endless hope
   Forever on that bright ocean
Able to look; and unbroken,
   Dive deeper and deeper into the light.

Though hardly now their slow gaze
Reaches to an arrow's flight, that day
They will see, and not in a daze,
The land "very far away."

If memory sometimes, at our command
Refuses to speak, or gets it wrong,
We won’t need her where we stay
Always in view of all our happiness.

Meanwhile, if gentle lights glide unnoticed over the sea or sky,
Or appear on cherished faces only to fade away,
Unseen by us, their sweet lesson remains unread;

Yet there are upsetting sights around,
Which Heaven, in mercy, spares us too,
And we see far in sacred ground,
If we clear our minds properly.

The distant landscape does not come closer
   No matter how much we look; but the soul,
That looks up, can still see
   Closer, each day, the brightening goal.

And you, too curious ear, that would
Like to navigate the maze of Harmony,
Be satisfied with one simple tune,
The simpler, surely, is more deserving of you;

Until you are properly trained and taught
The sweet harmony of divine Love:
Then, with that inner Music filled,
Forever rise, and sing, and shine.

What sudden burst of song
         Spreads across the vastness of Heaven?
   In waves of light it vibrates through,
         Th’ angelic message sent—
   “Glory to God!” from that central fire
Echoes beyond the starry choir;

Like circles expanding on
A clear blue river,
One orb after another, the amazing sound
Echoes on forever:
“Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth,
And love for those who love—salvation and freedom.”

Yet stay, before you dare
To join that festive crowd;
Listen and notice what gentle breeze
First stirred the wave of song;
It’s not, “the Savior born in David’s home,
To Whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:”—

It is not, "the Christ the Lord:"
         With a fixed, admiring gaze
   The choir of Angels received the word,
         And didn’t break their silence:
   But when they heard the sign of where Christ would be,
In a burst of light they shone with heavenly harmony.

Wrapped in His swaddling clothes,
And laid in His manger,
The Hope and Glory of all nations
Has come to help the world:
No calm home smiled down at His cradle,
Guests came and went loudly, where the royal Child slept.

But where You dwell, Lord,
     No other thought should be,
   Once properly welcomed and adored,
     How can I part with You?
   Bethlehem must lose You soon, but You will grace
The single heart to be Your true resting place.

You, laid on
the heart of a pure, innocent mind,
In quiet always, and in shadow,
shepherds and wise ones may find;
Those who have humbly accepted Nature’s influence,
And those who follow Truth along her star-lit path.

The pastoral spirits first
         Approach You, divine Baby,
   For they are raised in humble thoughts,
         Fit for Your humble shrine:
   Sooner than they would miss where You live,
Angela from Heaven will bend down to lead them to Your room.

Still, as the day arrives
For You to be revealed,
By watchful shepherds You are found,
Staying in the field.
All through the wintry sky and cold night air,
In music and in light You shine upon their prayer.

O don't lose hope
         due to fear—
         Even if your
   wandering sheep,
   Ignoring what they see and hear,
         Lie lost in
   stubborn sleep?
   High Heaven, in mercy to your sorrow,
Still meets you with joyful news of eternal happiness.

Think about the eternal home,
The Savior left for you;
Think about the Lord most holy, come
To dwell with hearts untrue:
Then you will walk tirelessly in His gentle ways,
And in the darkness, sing your song of praise.

As rays around the source of light
Stream upward before he shines in view,
And watching for his future path
Set the clear heavens ablaze;
So on the King of Martyrs wait
Three chosen groups, in royal state,
And all that the earth acknowledges, of good and great,
Is gathered in that choir.

One pushes forward and accepts death:
One calmly releases their breath,
Neither slow nor rushed, but in faith
   Ready to die or live:
And some, the favorites of their Lord,
Playfully engage with fire and sword,
And before they speak, to His certain word
   Unknowing witnesses stand.

Foremost and closest to His throne,
Recognized by perfect robes of triumph,
And most resembling Him in appearance and tone,
   The holy Stephen kneels,
With a steady gaze, just like when the sky
Opened up to his weakening eye,
Which, like a flickering lamp, flashed brightly,
   Seeing what death hides.

Well might you guess what bright vision
Was before his captivated sight,
Just as reflected streams of light
Reveal their solar source—
The glory surrounding our God,
The Son of Man, the wounds of atonement—
He sees them all; and earth’s dull limits
Are quickly fading away.

He sees them all—no other view
Could capture the Savior’s likeness accurately,
Or with His love so deeply influence
Man’s gloomy heart and crude—
“Jesus, do You receive my soul:
Jesus, do You forgive my enemies;”
He who wants to learn that prayer must live
Under the holy Cross.

He, even though he appears to move on earth,
Must glide through the air like a gentle dove,
From those clear, cloudless heights above
Must take his purer breath;
Until people see his angelic face
All shining with heavenly grace,
Martyr everywhere, and worthy to trace
The lines of Jesus’ death.

“Lord, what will happen to this man?”
Are you asking, Christian, about your friend?
If his love for Christ is genuine,
Christ has revealed to you his fate:
This is the one whom God endorses,
This is the one whom Jesus loves.

Ask him no more than this,
Leave it in his Savior’s heart,
Whether, called to happiness early,
He will find his peace in youth,
Or stand ready in his place
Till his Lord arrives at the gate:

Whether on his solitary path
(Solitary, not hopeless) he remains,
Or with Love’s uplifting strength
Trick the labor, and brighten the journey:
Leave it all in His capable hands,
Who guides hearts like rivers.

Gales from Heaven, if that's what He wants,
Sweeter melodies can arise
On the lonely mountain stream
Than the flowing waters create.
Whoever has the Father and the Son,
May be forsaken, but not alone.

Sick or healthy, enslaved or free,
Wealthy or looked down upon and poor—
What does it matter to him or you,
As long as his love for Christ lasts?
When the shore is finally reached,
Who will remember the waves that came before?

Only, since our souls will shrink
At the touch of natural grief,
When our earthly loved ones fade,
Lend us, Lord, Your sure relief;
Patient hearts, their pain to see,
And Your grace, to follow You.

Inform, you heavenly guardians, who wait
In Bethlehem, by the Savior’s palace gate,
Tell us, who are these with golden wings,
That hover over the newly born King of kings,
Their palms and garlands clearly showing
That they are part of the glorious martyr group,
Next to you, chosen to praise
His Name, and shine as they look upon Him?

But where are their spoils and trophies? Where
The glorious mark a martyr’s shield should have?
How is it that no one among them shows
The deep, worn lines of penitential tears,
But everything is bright and filled with love,
As if, fresh from Eden’s happy grove,
They had flown here to see their King,
And had never been heirs of dark mortality?

Ask, and an angel will respond,
“These, like you, were born to sin and die,
   But before the poison took root,
God marked them as His own.
   Baptized in its blood for Jesus’ sake,
Now they rest beneath the Cross,
   Not to be disturbed from that sure peace
By a frightened mother’s scream, or a warrior’s waving crest.”

Mindful of these, the firstfruits sweet
Borne by this suffering Church her Lord to greet;
Blessed Jesus always loved to trace
The “innocent brightness” of a baby’s face.
He raised them in His holy arms,
He blessed them from the world and all its harms:
Heirs though they were of sin and shame,
He blessed them in his own and in his Father’s Name.

Then, as each beloved unconscious child
On the everlasting Parent sweetly smiled,
(Like infants playing on the shore,
Who don't fear the Ocean’s endless roar),
Were they not in Your mind,
All souls, that in their cradles You’ve chosen?
But especially these, who died for You,
So that You might live to witness their sadder deaths.

And next to these, Your gracious word
Was like a promise of blessing kept
For Christian mothers, while they mourn
Their cherished hopes, just born, baptized, and gone.
Oh, joy for Rachel’s broken heart!
She and her babies will meet no more to part;
So dear to Christ her faithful rush
To trust them in His arms, forever safe and embraced.

She doesn’t want to resent leaving them there,
Where seeing them was her heart’s first wish;
She doesn’t want to be sad—but she has to cry,
As her pale, calm martyr slips away,
Teaching so quietly and effectively
How the lamb should follow the shepherd's call to die:
How much happier the end is than life
For souls that, like infants, bend under their burdens.

It's true, in the past the unchanging sun
His daily path refused to follow,
The pale moon rushing to the west
Stopped at a mortal’s plea, to help
The raging storm of war, that brought down
Seven guilty kingdoms all at once on earth’s polluted surface.

But can it be, that one person’s tear
Could stop the constantly moving sphere?
A sick man’s soft sigh,
When he turns away from the world,
And hides his tired eyes to pray,
Could change your mysterious dance, you wanderers of the sky?

We too, O Lord, would like to command,
Just like then, Your miracle-working hand,
And push back the waves of Time,
That now so quickly and quietly carry
Our restless ship from year to year;
Help us to pause and share with You our story of wrong.

Bright hopes that once warmed my heart,
   And vows too pure to be kept,
      And prayers scattered by the winds of worry;—
   These, and such faint half-awake dreams,
   Like stormy lights on mountain streams,
Wavering and broken all, against the harsh glare of conscience.

How can we escape the overwhelming past?
Can broken spirits, overshadowed joys,
And eyes that may never smile again:—
Can these delay the avenging bolt,
Or bring us back just one little day
To soften and charm the bitterness of death?

Father and Lover of our souls!
Though Your anger may surround us in darkness,
Your sunshine still shines beneath the gloom,
You seek to guide us, not to confuse,
Your rain would break through the hardened ground
And coax it to release its brightness and fragrance.

You smile at us in anger, and we,
Even in regret, would smile at You,
The tears that cleanse our offered hearts,
We don’t want them stained and dull,
But falling from the wings of angels,
All shining with the light that true love brings.

Time’s waters won’t flow back or stop;
Power can’t change them, but Love can;
What can’t be, Love makes it happen.
Deep in the heart, her searching gaze
Can see where Faith is steady and real,
Through the shadows of a fading life, she can see Heaven’s work starting.

O You, who hold the Key of Love,
Open Your fountain, eternal Dove,
And fill this heart of mine,
Growing as it fills with You,
Until in one shining blaze of charity
Care and regret are lost, like dust in divine light;

Till as each moment lifts us
By every surge of pure desire,
And elevated hope for joys
Beyond,
By every hidden sigh we breathe,
We outlive whole years of foolishness,
In His perfect view, who measures Life by Love.

The year starts with You,
And You begin with sorrow,
To show the world of sinners that
Blood for sin must be shed.

Your baby's cries, O Lord,
Your tears on the breast,
Are not enough—the law's sword
Must fulfill its harsh command.

Like sacrificial wine
Poured on a victim’s head
Are those few precious drops of Yours,
Now first to offering led.

They are the promise and seal
Of Christ’s unwavering faith
Given to His Father, to heal our souls,
Even though it cost Him His life.

They came to His Church of old,
To each true Jewish heart,
In Gospel graces many
Blessed communion share.

Now, concerning Your love, we think
Of it as a vast ocean,
Rising in waves against the current
Of ages long gone by.

Both theirs and ours You are,
   As we and they are Yours;
Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs—all are part
   Along the sacred line.

By blood and water too
   God's mark is placed on you,
So that in you every faithful eye
   Might see both covenants.

O bond of union, dear
And strong as Your grace!
Saints, separated by a thousand years,
May thus in heart embrace.

Is there a true mourner,
Who, in these unfaithful days,
Sighs for the comforting sight
Of those whom Heaven chose to praise?

In spirit, you may meet
With faithful Abraham here,
Whom soon in Eden you'll greet
A caring Father dear.

Would you like to be a poet?
And would your dull heart gladly
Borrow from Israel’s music
One uplifting, ecstatic tune?

Come here, your soul to tune,
Here set your feeble song,
Here, if anywhere under the moon,
Is holy David’s place.

Are you a child of tears,
   Held in care and sorrow?
And does it seem that during your young years
   There are few joyful moments to show?

And down come the sounds of laughter
Heavy on your lonely heart,
From all the hopes and joys of life
Unfairly forced to part?

Look here, and stay quiet:
The Giver of all good
Even from the womb takes no break
From suffering, tears, and blood.

If you want to thrive in love,
   First, plant it with genuine respect:
So life on a winter morning may turn
   Into a bright and endless year.

And will you hear the fevered heart
To You silently cry?
And as the restless wildfires dart
Out of the restless eye,
Will you forgive the wayward thought
By tender pains still half untaught
A Savior's right, so dearly bought,
That Hope should never die?

You will: for many a weary prayer
Has reached You from the wild,
Since the lost mother, wandering there,
Laid down her fainting child,
Then stepped away to weep and die,
Not knowing an angel was nearby,
To show gentle waters flowing by,
And soft, calming shadows.

You will—because You are Israel’s God,
And Your tireless arm
Is still ready with Moses’ rod,
To draw out the hidden stream
From the dry, unexplored depths
Of sands that rest in lifeless sleep,
Except when the burning whirlwinds pile
Their waves in rough turmoil.

These moments of wild anger are Yours—
Yours, too, the darker hour
When over the horizon’s quiet line
Hopeful dreams cower,
And on the traveler’s indifferent path
Rises and sets the constant day,
No cloud in the sky to cool its light,
No sheltering bower on earth.

You will be there and not abandon me,
   To change the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
   To cool this throbbing brow:
Until for a while with You alone
The stubborn heart will gladly admit
That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
   Can best govern our darkness.

The smell of water in the distance
Is carried on the breeze;
The desert pelican today
Safely leaves her chicks,
It’s a critique of ungrateful humans who are afraid
To travel a few lonely years,
Where on the sand Your footsteps are seen,
Your crown within reach.

You, who sat by Jacob’s well The tired hour of noon, You know the slow pulses, The lifeless spirit's tune. You from Whose cross in pain broke The cry that revealed Your dying thirst, To You we turn, our Last and First, Our Sun and calming Moon.

From the darkness and gloom here,
We don't ask for complete rest,
Just be near to bless
Our difficult times of distress.
Isn't the pilgrim’s hard work rewarded
By the clear stream and shady palm?
And don't we see, in Earth's shadowy grove,
The gate of Heaven opening?

Star of the East, how sweet You are,
Seen in life's early morning sky,
Before a cloud has dimmed the view,
While we still look on with innocent eyes;

When Dad, Mom, and our caring friend,
Who we loved the most, and who loved us best,
First called us to step out of their arms,
Pointing to You, in Your certain peace.

Too soon the bright light of day
Covers, for us, Your sharp brightness,
And we are left to find our path
By faith and hope in You, unseen.

What does it matter? If the clear signposts
All around us are placed,
Soon passed over, but not hidden?
It’s up to us to notice them or ignore.

What does it matter? If in peaceful old age
   Our childhood’s star shines again,
Crowning our solitary journey
   With everything that brightens a traveler’s eyes?

Never may we lose it from our sight,
Until all our hopes and thoughts are guided
To where it keeps its clear path
Over our Savior’s humble bed.

There, wrapped in the simplest poverty,
On Chastity’s gentle lap protected,
Breathlessly waiting with respect,
When we discover our Sovereign Master,

Will the long-forgotten glow
Of mixed joy and wonder come back,
When stars above or flowers below
First sparked our young spirits' fire?

Look at us, Lord, and take our side
Even from Your throne of purity!
From these our proud yet humble hearts
Don't hide Your gentle, forgiving gaze.

Didn’t the Gentile Church find grace,
Our beloved mother, on this blessed day?
With gold and myrrh, she sought Your presence;
And You didn’t turn away from her.

She too, back in earlier, simpler times,
Had seen you shining faintly from afar—
But straying down paths she chose herself,
She completely lost you, oh beautiful star.

Yet her father's finger had pointed
To You when she first looked around:
The deeper shame inside her burned,
When she was pulled from her stubborn daze.

Look, her wisest crowd is at your door,
Their finest, sweetest, purest treasure,
(Though it’s too late and just not worth much,)
They waste it on your cottage floor.

They give their all—Oh, how shameful for us
Their fallen descendants,
Who sacrifice the weak and helpless—
Who won’t join you in waking or fasting!

Lessons sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
Can I call you wisdom or knowledge,
Natural instinct, or divinely inspired skill?
Whatever title you choose,
Sweet this lengthening April day,
As long as the soul is free with you,
Roaming freely over hills and fields.

Soft as Memnon’s harp at dawn,
To the faithful inner ear,
Touched by light, with divine caution
Your uplifting chords resound clear.
Every leaf in every corner,
Every wave in every stream,
Singing with a serious tone,
Reminds us of our higher dream.

Needs no display of ancient mountains,
Curving coast or deepening valley,
Where the landscape in its splendor
Shares wisdom with wandering souls:
Just give honest hearts the earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and fade,
Everyday scenes and straightforward sights
Can inspire the humblest thoughts.

See the soft green willow rising
Where the waters flow gently,
Each way her free arms waving
Over the damp and grassy reeds.
Long before the winter winds are gone,
See her touched with spring's red,
And her nice flowers out in bloom
Before her leaves can provide any shade.

Though the roughest hand attacks her,
Patiently she hangs her head for a bit,
But when the rain and breezes greet her,
She wears her cheerful smile again.
This is how I learn the strength of Contentment
From the slighted willow grove,
Ready to be grateful and live
On whatever little Heaven may provide.

If the quiet little brook is flowing,
Up the rocky valley I go,
Maybe half in imagined sorrow
For the shadows I’m leaving behind,
By the dusty, dreary roadside,
Nightingales cheerfully sing,
Trying to lift my sadness,
Happier than in a well-kept grove.

Where the thickest branches are twisting
Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they dive, the light fading—
Everyone can hear, but no one can see.
Unafraid of the passing hoof,
They hardly run away;
So they live in simple ways,
Trusting completely, and always praising.

The heart of childhood is all joy:
We play around without a care
As free and cheerful, as if on earth
There were no such thing as sorrow.

But if we really trust the tempting voice,
That whispers, “Enjoy yourself before you die,
Treat yourself and be happy;”

Surely, with each day that ends,
We mourn some joy we've lost;
The flowers fade as we move on
Until we, too, are lost.

Such is the world’s vibrant, flashy party,
   In her first delightful bowl
Filling us with all that ignites the heart,
   And deceives the fickle soul.

And still, as the party gets louder,
The racing heartbeat quickens,
Until the burnt taste from the dirtiest sources
Is eager to cool its blaze.

Unlike the feast of divine love
Offered at the Savior’s command
For souls that respond to His call, and show
They’re worthy of His wedding banquet.

Why should we be afraid of youth's drink of joy
If it's pure, it would shine less?
Why should the cup make us tired sooner,
Which God has chosen to bless?

For is it Hope that excites so intensely
Through every racing vein,
Still suggesting wonderful things we can't see?—
Faith makes the vision clear.

The world would end her soon: but Faith
Her bold dreams will hold dear,
Sending her eyes beyond time and death
To places where nothing can die.

Or is it Love, the cherished joy
Of hearts that are sincere,
That causes everything to shine
With its own magical cheer?

The quiet joy that goes so deep,
   Of trust and peace,
Rocked in a father’s arms to sleep,
   Held close to a mother’s chest?

Who but a Christian, throughout life
can keep that blessing going?
Who, through the world's tough days of struggle,
still sings his morning song?

Fathers might despise us or abandon us,
   We're God's lost children now:
Mothers show no compassion for their kids,
   But we'll always have You.

We might look to our homes and search in vain
For a loving brother's heart,
But Christ has made His promise clear
To play a brother's role.

Nor will dull age, as people say,
   The heavenly flame disturb:
The Savior can't fade away,
   And with Him lives our joy.

Always the richest, warmest glow
Surrounds the autumn sun—
But there vision fades: no heart can know
The joy when life is done.

Such is Your feast, dear Lord;
Oh give us grace to share
Our fate with Yours, to trust Your word,
And save our best for last.

I marked a rainbow in the north,
      When the wild autumn sun
   Peered out from behind his dark veil at noon,
      As if celebrating his journey halfway
   Spreading soft light everywhere
Over the dark sky and chilly hillside.

It was a spark to Memory dear,
      And as I walk and think alone,
   When everything feels unfaithful and bleak,
      I would bring it back to my heart,
   And see how light can make its way
To places farthest from the source of day.

Light shines in the darkest sky,
      And music plays in the dullest fields,
   For there the lark is flying high
      Over her barren, leafless land,
   And singing with such joy,
It makes a weary heart feel ashamed to be alone.

Brighter than a rainbow in the north,
      More cheerful than the morning lark,
   Is the soft glow of Christian virtue,
      Which we can see on some holy house;
   Dear to the pastor’s aching heart
To think, wherever he looks, such light may be a part;

May exist, hidden from everyone but Heaven,
      Like a diamond shining in the mine;
   Forever, where such grace is given,
      It fears to shine in broad daylight,
   In case the deep stain it carries inside
Breaks out, and Faith is shamed by the believer’s sin.

In silence and from a distance they wait,
      To find a prayer that their Lord will hear:
   Voice of the poor and lost,
      You’re best at getting it to His ear;
   Your grateful appeals go up
With more than royal splendor, reaching the skies.

Happy is the soul whose valuable cause
      You present in the Sovereign Presence
   “This is the lover of Your laws,
      The friend of Yours in fear and need,”
   For to the poor Your mercy grants
That solemn title, “Your nation and Your friends.”

He is also fortunate whose outward eye
      Can appreciate the graceful lines of art,
   While his free spirit, rising high,
      Can distinguish the glorious from the low;
   Until he raises from dust
A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise,

Where far away and high
      In a maze upon a maze, the enchanted
   Sight drifts, remembering that eternal love
      Which has no limits in depth or height,
   While the powerful breath of Music seems
To carry us onward, soaring in blissful dreams.

What if you appeared here in a simple and humble way,
      born in a cottage?
   Yet from Your glory in the heavens,
      You do not reject our earthly gold.
   For Love loves to give her best,
And where Love is, that gift is always blessed.

Love on the Savior’s dying head
Her spikenard drops unblamed may pour,
May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead
In spices from the golden shore;
Risen, may embalm His sacred name
With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame.

Worthless and lost, our offerings seem,
      Just drops in the ocean of His praise;
   But Mercy, with her warm light,
      Is turning them into a pearly blaze,
   To shine in His crown above,
Who welcomes here a child’s love just like an angel’s.

They understand the power of the Almighty,
Who, awakened by the torrential midnight rain,
Anticipate the sudden gusts
To roar and rustle among the swaying trees,
Anticipate the quiet white glow
To illuminate the landscape in a radiant stream,
Touching the quivering eye with a feeling of light
So quick and so pure that only angels can see.

They know the Almighty’s love,
Who, when the wind howls through the tallest trees,
Stand in the shade and listen
To the chaos with a mixture of fear and joy,
How, in their strongest fury,
Held back by some unseen force, they fade away,
Like a brave horse that recognizes its rider’s strength,
Proud to be reined in and comforted by those overpowering reins.

But there are storms inside
That toss the struggling heart with louder noise,
And there is strength and love
To quiet the maniac’s frantic energy,
And when he sits down,
Dressed and calm, at his Savior’s feet,
Is not the power just as strange, the love just as blessed,
As when He said, “Be still,” and the ocean found peace?

Woe to the wayward heart,
That more eagerly turns to look at the trembling spark
Of Passion in her power,
Than notices the quiet development of grace and light;—
Happy to stay in the lifeless tomb
While the morning rays brighten
The green lake, cedar clumps, and fragrant grove,
Shaking their dewy leaves now that the storm has passed.

The storm is calm now—and now
In His gentle strength, He climbs the mountain’s peak,
Who told the waves to rest,
And forced the restless demons back into their deep.
Look how they stand on the rock,
Watching His gaze, and following His guiding hand!
Not even half as steady, among her servant hills,
Rises the holy structure that fills Kedron’s valley.

And will you seek again
Your howling wasteland, your graveyard and chains,
And be with the demons,
Rather than grasp your own Deliverer's knee?
Surely it’s not a Heaven-born awe
That keeps you from His healing touch;
The world and He are fighting in your heart,
And in your reckless mood, you tell your Lord to leave.

He, kind and gentle,
just like before, watches over His rebellious child;
When souls of noble heritage
waste their passionate energy on earthly dreams,
He opens Nature’s book,
and invites them to see His glorious Gospel,
until, through the harmonies that guide the choirs above,
their wild cries are transformed into hymns of pure love.

Awaken, almighty God! wake,
      Eye of the all-knowing!
   Now for Your glory’s sake,
      Savior and God, arise,
And may Your ear, that seems closed,
In compassion hear our sorrowful songs!

Thus in her lonely hour
      Your Church is eager to cry,
   As if Your love and power
      Had vanished from her sky;
Yet God is there, and at His side
He triumphs, who died for sinners.

Ah! It's the world
      That captivates the heart:
   The betraying senses pull
      The soaring soul from peace.
That bitter sigh was all for earthly things,
For glories lost and laughter that vanished.

Age would return to youth,
      Further from Heaven it would be,
   To feel the wildfire burn,
      On idolizing knee
Again to fall, and take from Your shrine
Of hearts, the right of Divine Love.

Lord of this wandering flock!
      You whose gentle showers fall
   On barren ocean or rock,
      Free as on Hermon hill,
Cheer our timid spirits,
And help us overcome selfish tears.

'Twas silent all and dead
      Beside the barren sea,
   Where Philip's steps were led,
      Led by a voice from You—
He rose and went, without asking why,
Nor stayed to let out a doubtful sigh:

Upon his lonely journey
      The noble traveler came,
   Reading a sad song
      About “One who carried our shame,
Silent Himself, His name unknown,
And yet His glories were well-known.”

To think about what Heaven could mean
      He lifted his brow in wonder,
   And met a calm gaze
      That observed him closely.
No Hermit ever received such a warm welcome
As a child wandering alone in the woods.

Now wonder transforms into love;
      The scrolls of ancient knowledge
   No longer present dark paths;
      The desert is no longer exhausting.
They wash in sacred waters,
Then continue their joyful journey.

They separate to meet in Heaven;
      But of the joy they share,
   Forgiven and free,
      They hold dear the sweet memories.
Yes—pay attention to him, you cold and proud.
Lost in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale
At Rumour’s angry din—
No storm can now attack
The charm he carries inside,
Rejoicing still, and doing good,
And filled with the thought of God.

No bright shine of wealth,
      No darkness of sadness or need,
   The light can fade
      Where Heaven loves to linger:
Sin only waits for the warm light,
And, around the Cross, turns day into night.

Then cry it out from your heart;
      That way you can truly understand
   The role of the intercessor;
      Your prayers and tears might bring
Some healing for fallen souls,
Before they face the Apostate’s end.

There are those who, in the darkness and feeling alone,
Wish the long night would just end,
Even if the morning reveals
The pain of their hidden sorrow:
Who long for the strongest pain
To free them from doubt's heavy chains:
“Just clear away the darkness,” they plead,
“And if our end is death, then at least let us see the light before we die.”

Unwise I think them, Lord,
unfit
To benefit from Your gentle discipline,
For You want us to stay close
To the edge of good and bad.
So that on Your unseen guiding hand
Our undivided hearts can rely,
And this fragile and sinking boat
Glide in the narrow path of Your beloved ark.

It's true in war—the true champion
Loves victory more when it's not in sight
He sees her glories shining far away
On the dark edge of stubborn war,
Than if the untrodden, bloodless field
Yields the harvest of her laurels;
Let not my ship stay in calm waters,
But forge ahead fearlessly against the rough tide.

It's true in love—the loyal heart
Wouldn't separate from her unclear vision,
When first given to her tender gaze
That purest place in imagination's paradise,
For all the beautiful sky around,
Though promised to stay and sure to remain:
More precious than every past afternoon
That twilight glow is to her, even if it's faint and distant.

So I've seen a delicate flower
Valued more than all the spring blossoms,
Protected by the coolest shade,
Nestled in the greenest clearing,
So fragile a gem, it can barely withstand
The gentle caress of the evening breeze;
As it grows stronger, we appreciate it less,
And let it be out of sight, no longer craving our touch.

And why is the sweet spring season
Worth more than all the changing year?
The newborn baby, why does it hold
Such a deep place in a mother’s heart?
It's because the Lord and Source of love
Wants His weakest to always experience
Our deepest care—and most importantly
Our fragile immortal souls, His creation and Satan’s captive.

So be it, Lord; I know what's best,
Though my restless heart
Hasn't fully responded to Your voice yet,
I have definitely made my choice;
I don't know the promised joy yet,
I don't know if I'll succeed or fail;
So in doubt, I'd rather die,
Than accept anything else that lasts forever.

What is the Heaven we casually dream?
   The self-deceiver’s gloomy theme,
   A sun that shines without a cloud,
   Bright maidens and persistent vines,
   The warrior’s pride, the hunter’s joy,
   Just poor fragments of this earthly life:
   Things that in sleep would hardly comfort
A soul that has once experienced immortal Truth.

What is the Heaven that our God gives?
No Prophet, and no Angel knows;
No eye ever created
Could see beyond Eternity;
Not even a seraph’s wing soaring
Can reach the flight of souls worshiping,
That get closer and closer
To the unreachable Lord, who was made for them so low.

Unseen and unfelt, they grow on this earth,
And burdened by their own guilt and laziness,
They live and die; their names fade away,
Their essence slips from memory;
Like violets in the bitter cold,
They give off no springtime warmth.—
But they will blossom from the grave,
The breath of God will bring them back to fragrant life.

Then on the incarnate Saviour’s chest,
   The source of sweetness, they will rest,
   Their spirits every hour infused
   More deeply with His precious blood.
   But peace—quiet voice and closed eye
   Fit best with hearts beyond the sky,
   Hearts learning in their humble home,
Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God.

There is a book, anyone who runs can read,
Which reveals heavenly truths,
And provides all the knowledge its scholars need,
Pure hearts and Christian minds.

The works of God up high, down low,
Inside us and all around,
Are chapters in that story, to show
How God can be found.

The beautiful sky surrounding everyone
Is like the Creator’s love,
Where, surrounded, big and small
In harmony and order thrive.

The Moon up high, the Church down low,
   They have an amazing race to run,
But all their brightness, all their shine,
   They each borrow from the Sun.

The Savior brings the light and warmth
That crowns His holy hill;
The saints, like stars, around His throne
Carry on their duties still.

The saints up in heaven are like stars—
   What about the saints down here?
They’re like trees that God has planted,
   Our Eden’s joyful start.

Faith is their steady, unwavering foundation,
Hope their everlasting bloom,
Good acts of kindness their reward,
The beauty of their haven.

The dew from heaven is like Your grace,
It quietly descends;
But where it falls, this blessed spot
Is recognized by its abundant fruits.

One name above all glorious names
   With its countless voices
The endless sea declares.
   Echoing heavenly songs.

The fierce Fire, the loud Wind,
Your endless power shows;
But in the softer breeze, we see
Your Spirit’s unseen path.

Two worlds belong to us: it's only Sin
That keeps us from seeing
The mystical heaven and earth inside,
Clear as the sea and sky.

You, who have given me eyes to see
And love this sight so beautiful,
Give me a heart to discover You,
And recognize You everywhere.

Enemy of humanity! Your kind is so reckless:
You rush in such a careless way,
Your own terrible actions will surely confuse you:
It was just a tiny drop of sin
We witnessed this morning enter in,
And look! by evening, the world is drowned.

See here the result of
wandering eyes,
Of worldly desires to gain knowledge,
Of Passion fixated on forbidden pleasures:
You unrestrained glances, roam freely;
Destruction below and anger above
Are all that now the confusing imagination encounters.

Lord, when I'm in some secluded garden glade,
Afraid of You and of myself.
I hide among the trees from thoughts like these,
And it's then, loudest of all,
I seem to hear the Judge’s call:—
“Where are you, fallen man? Come out, and face your trial.”

Trembling before You as I stand,
Wherever I look around me
The verdict is out, the ground is cursed:
Yet mixed with the punishing rain
Some drops of healing in every garden
Fall softly like the first April dew.

If love from children and mothers
   Must show the memory of our guilt,
If sinful kids have to be born in sadness,
   Still, to ease her deepest pain,
   The loyal mother surely understands,
This was how You came to save the lost world.

If blessed marriage can’t bring joy
Without some hint of sadness
To spoil her cup of happiness, since Eden was lost,
Tethering to the earth with strong desire
Hearts that would otherwise reach for the highest,
And constantly taking over the softer sex;

Yet by the light of Christian teachings
It’s no longer blind Idolatry,
But a sweet help and example of true love,
Showing how best the soul may cling
To her eternal Spouse and King,
How He should lead, and she with complete desire agree.

If stingy Earth hides her treasures,
Denying them to all but those who work,
Only giving out thorns and useless weeds,
The fate is partly a mercy granted,
To guide us on our path to Heaven,
And teach our slow souls how glory needs to be earned.

If on the sinner's outward appearance
God has marked them with blame,
And even our bodies flinch at the light,
Still, mercy hasn’t abandoned us:
The very rags we wear each day
Are to Faith's eye a sign of God's forgiving strength.

And oh! if there’s just one more arrow
The sharpest from the Almighty’s collection,
Trembling on the string—a sinner’s end—
Aren’t You here to soothe and save,
To lay us down gently in the grave,
To close the tired eyes and quiet the final breath?

Therefore in view of man deprived
The joyful garden was still there;
The blazing sword that protected it, showed that too;
Spinning in all directions, to teach the world,
That although it was still out of our reach,
The tree of life and glory still grew in its spot.

Sweet Dove! the softest, steadiest feather,
In all the bright blue sky,
Shining in constantly changing beauty
As the winds shift up high;—

Sweet Leaf! the promise of peace and joy,
"Long desired, and just achieved,"
Blessed growth of a rejuvenating Earth,
When it first embraced the Sun;—

Sweet Rainbow! pride of summer days,
High up at Heaven’s command,
Though into dull and gloomy haze
You fade on either side;—

Dear tokens of a forgiving God,
We greet you, everyone,
Just like our ancestors roamed freely,
Released from their yearlong bondage.

How joyful from the confining ark
On the green earth they spring!
Not happier, after rain, the lark
Soars up with shining wing.

So sailors returning home jump ashore,
Two oceans left behind;
So joyful souls, when life is done,
Dive into this heavenly expanse.

What captures their first and sweetest glance
In all the joyful field,
And holds it for a thousand days?
Love shown face to face:

Love reflected in that warm gaze
Our Lord in Eden bows
On souls that have sinned and abandoned the earth
In time to die for His friends.

And what is most welcome and calm
Awakens in the Patriarch’s eye,
In all the rising green hills,
In all the brightening sky?

What else but the gentle glow of a rainbow,
Comforting the tired eyes,
That can't handle the bright sunlight,
With its soft, non-blinding light?

Lord, if our ancestors looked to You
With such devoted eyes,
Questioning how weak humans can see Your light
Without being burned by its fire;

Where is our love, and where are our hearts,
We who have seen Your Son,
Have experienced Your Spirit’s gentle ways,
And still we are not won?

The Son of God shone brightly
Too dazzling for our sight,
But we can look at the light that flowed
From the gentle Son of Man.

There, split into rainbow colors,
   In sweet, harmonious struggle
We see divine love spread out
   Its light over Jesus’ life.

God, through His bow, allows us to see
   This truth in Heaven above:
Just as every beautiful color is Light,
   So every quality is Love.

“Yes—deep inside and even deeper yet
The nagging pain of conscience hides,
Quick let the swelling eye forget
The tears that linger in the heart.
Calm be the voice, the look confident,
No shuddering pass over lip or brow,
For why should Innocence be told
The pains that guilty spirits endure?

“The loving eye that watches you
Close as the air that surrounds you—
Why should it grieve in your sorrow,
Since it has never found your sin?
And why should the unbelievers see
The chains of darkness that enslave you,
And mockingly say, ‘Look, this is the one
Who had a God that couldn’t save’?”

Thus, often the mourner’s troubled heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too weak for the pain of confession,
Too proud to endure a sympathetic glance;
How lovely, in that dark hour, to find
Embraces ready to accept
Our sighs, and softly share it all!
They care for us—won't God forgive?

Else let us keep our fast inside,
Until Heaven and we are completely alone,
Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,
Be laid before the mercy-seat.
Between the porch and altar, weep,
Unworthy of the holiest place,
Yet hoping near the shrine to maintain
One humble space in sight of grace.

Nor fear that sympathy will run out—
Haven't you seen, in the dark hours,
When troubling thoughts attack the heart,
The glimmering stars appear one by one,
And from the eternal house above
Quietly bring news of mercy?
So Angels take a break from their tasks of love,
To see where sorrowful sinners kneel.

Or if no angel comes by,
He who sees in secret might
Send His own comforting light
Streaming toward you with a kinder glance,
Just as when His Father’s light
Was poured over His drooping head
When, unsheltered and hungry,
He was driven far into the wilderness.

High thoughts were with Him in that moment,
Beyond words, beyond what can be said on earth—
And who can stop the soaring strength
Of spirits turned away from earthly joy,
While far beyond the noise of praise
They float peacefully with their eyes raised,
And learn to endure their Savior’s light
When Judgment finally reveals the truth?

“Angel of wrath! why are you hovering in the air,
While the desperate city's cries
Get louder and louder? Can you not spare,
Your full vial that’s ready?”
Thus, with a stern voice, relentless Justice begs:
He doesn’t hear her—with a softened gaze
His eye follows where sweet Mercy leads,
And until she gives the signal, his rage holds back.

Guided by her, along the mountain road,
Far through the early morning light,
With hurried steps from the cursed place
He sees the holy family passing by;
Angels, or something like them, on either side are close,
To help them cross the alluring plain,
Lingering in spirit, with a weak sideways glance
Trying to figure out how close they can stay without getting hurt.

“Ah! why do those beautiful high grounds shine so brightly?
And why does that bright valley, as rich and rare as Eden,
swell through every woodland arch,
where the Jordan flows with such majesty?
If everything must be abandoned, all ruined,
if God plants just to set it on fire?—
Surely the storm of vengeance hasn’t fallen yet,
though I turn back for one last look at my home.”

Thus, while they hesitate, surely long ago
They stirred up the harsh winds,
But the merciful Avengers are aware
Of their weakness and keep them safe.
“Hurry, for your life, don’t look back”—
Always in thrilling words like these
They steady the wandering gaze, gently stern,
Nor let the sinner easily lose their soul.

And when we're exhausted from the steep climb,
We ask for a closer place to rest,
One small piece of land in mercy given,
One hour of home before we face the end,
Often, in His compassion for His weak children,
He holds back the punishing fire,
And where we hold on tightly, He waits to unleash
Full vengeance, until our hearts are completely detached.

Thus, because of the goodness of one righteous person,
The Church, our refuge, will endure,
Until she misuses her extended time,
Even Mercy herself must turn away.
Then, take another step, you hard-won soul;
Though you know your place in the Church,
The mountain lies ahead—there pursue your goal,
There breathe freely, past your risky journey.

Sweet is the smile of home; the shared glance
When hearts are truly connected;
Sweet are all the joys that fill the cozy space,
The place of all pure feelings;
Yet in the world even these exist, and we
Take pride in our purpose above the world;
Once you reach the mountain top, you are free:
Until then, those who rest should beware; those who look back are lost.

“And is there in God’s world such a bleak place
Where the loud bitter cry is raised without hope?
Where tears of regret come too late for mercy,
Just like the gentle rain on a torn flower?”

It’s true: the supreme Lord of souls
Keeps in the dungeon of His endless kingdom
Every lock that rolls over the sinner in vain,
With stored-up anger to overwhelm the outcast.

Will the storm hear the sailor’s desperate cry,
Taught to be so distrustful, too late, of the tempting wave,
When all around he sees only sea and sky,
A God in anger, a grave he chose himself?

Or will the thorns that scatter
intemperance’s bed,
   Turn with a wish to go down? Will late remorse
Recall the arrow the murderer’s hand has shot,
   Or divert its path from the innocent heart?

Then may the disembodied soul safely soar
Through the dark veils of the world above,
Fresh from the stain of wrongdoing; nor fear to face
The God whom here she refused to learn to love;

Then is there hope for those who die without blessing,
That angel wings may carry them to the shore,
Nor need the unprepared virgin beat her breast,
Nor wait hopelessly around the bridegroom’s door.

But where is the comfort for broken hearts?
In the past they relied on Your eternal word,
But with the sinner’s fear, their hope fades away,
Strongly tied as Your great Name is to You, O Lord:

That name, by which your faithful promise is made,
That we should be endless, for joy or sorrow:—
And if the treasures of your anger could diminish,
Your lovers would have to give up their promised Heaven.

But think back to earlier times, the earth's spring
When people would hear God's voice in everyday conversation,
When at the Patriarch's request, the fiery shower
Favorably appeared over the grass-covered altar.

Watch by our father Isaac’s pastoral door—
The birthright sold, the blessing lost and won;
Tell, Heaven has anger that can’t let go;
The Grave, dark deeds that can’t be changed.

We trade life for soup; sell genuine happiness
For money or power, for pleasure or fame;
So, like Esau, we miss our Father’s blessing,
Then wash our faded crown with useless tears.

Our worn-out crown, rejected and tossed aside,
Will shine forever on some brother's head;
No biased hand can steer the blessing wrong,
No sweet illusion can alter our Monarch's fate:

His just fate, that gentle, sincere Love
The timeless birthright should inherit,
The gentlest dewdrops fall on her from above,
The lushest green her mountain crown shall create:

Her brothers, the strongest, the smartest, the eldest,
bow to her power and act at her command;
Isaac’s loving blessing won't be rejected,
nor Balaam’s curse on Love, which God has blessed.

View Lucifer fall like lightning,
         Thrown down from his throne of pride;
      While, responding to Your victorious call,
         The Saints share his spoils;
   This world of Yours, stolen by him for too long,
Now opening up all its resources to heal Your servants’ wrong.

So when the
         firstborn of Your enemies
         lay dead in the darkness,
      When Your redeemed ones rose at midnight
         And broke their chains,
   The forsaken land opened her gates wide and offered
      Her treasures and gold to freed Israel.

And when their amazing journey was over,
And they had secured their homes,
Where Abraham once tended his flock,
Among their ancestors’ graves;—
A land that freely drinks the rain from Heaven,
Whose waters touch the toes of many vine-covered hills;—

Often as they watched, in a reflective evening,
         A breeze from fragrant groves
      Swept over the rolling corn, and lifted
         The leaves of the palm,
   Just as the setting Sun had painted with gold,
Far beyond the cedar shade, some ancient tower of giants;

It was a strange happiness, I think,
      To see the work of the pagans,
         The clear wells, the green orchards,
      Left ready to be taken,
   The household goods untouched, the bright roses
Wreathed around the cottage walls in joyful garlands.

And now another Canaan submits
To your all-conquering ark:—
Escape from the “old poetic” fields,
You dark Paynim shadows!
Immortal Greece, beloved land of glorious songs,
Look! here is the “unknown God” of your unrecognized praise.

The
olive wreath, the ivy-covered staff,
         “The sword dressed in myrtles,”
      Each story from the shadowy shore
         Now brings a blessed vision;
   Just as little kids whisper and speak of Heaven,
So ideas beyond their understanding were given to those great poets.

And these are ours: Your partial grace
The tempting treasure gives:
These remains of a guilty race
Are forfeited to Your friends;
What once felt like an idol hymn now speaks of You,
Tuned by Faith’s ear to some heavenly melody.

There’s not a burden to memory, dear,
         Nor flower in a classic grove,
      There’s not a sweet note sung here,
         But reminds us of Your love.
   O Lord, our Lord, and conqueror of our foes,
There is no light but Yours: with You, all beauty shines.

When Nature shows her best touch,
Weaving her spring wreath,
Notice how closely she hides her form,
Not to be detected by sight or sound,
Nor tarnished by a rough breath?

Who ever saw the first rose
Open her sweet petals?
Or, when the summer sun sets,
The first soft star in evening’s sky
Light up her shining head?

Fondly we look for the first bloom
On pale and lovely features,
The observing eye can't notice any change,
But look away for just a moment,
Then turn, and there it is.

But there’s a sweeter flower than ever
Blushed on the rosy spray—
A brighter star, a richer bloom
Than ever did western heaven illuminate
At the end of a summer day.

It’s Love, the ultimate gift from Heaven;
Love that’s gentle, holy, and pure;
But softer than a dove’s gentle gaze,
The searching sun, the open sky,
She could never tolerate.

Even human love will shy away from view
Here on this rough, harsh earth:
How then should a reckless, prying gaze
Interrupt her sacred reverie
Who claims a divine origin?

So quiet and hidden is her growth,
Always the truest heart,
Where her kind roots dig deepest
For hope or joy, for flowers or fruit,
Least aware of its joyful role.

God alone, and good angels, look
   Behind the joyful screen—
As when, triumphant over His troubles,
The Son of God rose by moonlight,
   Unseen by all but Heaven:

As when the holy Maid saw
   Her risen Son and Lord:
Thoughts don't have colors half as beautiful
That she could use to paint that moment,
   In silence best adored.

The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven
The promise of our happiness,
Of many chosen witnesses sharing,
On many happy visions lingering,
Sings not a note of this.

So, the truest image of Christ,
   Old Israel’s long-lost son,
When he sweetly and forgivingly,
Called his aware brothers near,
   Would weep with them alone.

He couldn’t trust his fading spirit
   But in his Creator’s gaze—
So why should kind and loyal hearts
Expose to the harsh world’s cruel sight
   Their precious joy!

No—let the delicate rose for a while
Hide her shy fragrance—
Don’t tear away her silky veil too soon,
But leave her, in her gentle afternoon,
To bloom and thrive.

The historic Muse, from age to age,
Through many a painful, heart-wrenching page
Has traced the works of Man:
But a divine call today
Stops her, like Moses, on her way,
To explore the works of God.

Far off across the sandy wilderness,
Where, like a lonely child,
   He wandered carelessly and freely,
One tall thorn was wrapped in flames—
Bright without a blaze it flickered and flashed:
   Who wouldn't stop and stare?

Along the mountain ledges green
The scattered sheep can graze at will
   The Desert’s spicy treasures:
Meanwhile, with focused heart,
The shepherd speaks to God alone,
   And, as he speaks, worships.

You too, who care for Christ’s wandering flock,
Can gather around the rock
That was once Sion’s hill:
To watch the fire on the mountain
Still blazing, like the sun’s fountain,
Yet still unburning.

Caught from that blaze by Divine wrath,
Lost branches of the once-loved vine,
   Now withered, spent, and dry,
See Israel’s sons, like glowing flames,
Tossed wildly over a thousand lands
   For two thousand years.

God will not put them out or kill them completely,
But raises them like a guiding light
   To frighten the fallen Church;
Or like pale ghosts that wander in the dark,
Hovering around their old home,
   But finding no safe place there.

Oh blessed Angels! If you
Are out there, who enjoy watching the
Lives of Kings and Kingdoms here;
(And surely, it’s worth an Angel's attention,
To see, through that gloomy maze,
God teaching love and fear:)

Oh say, in all the empty space
Is there a place to catch your eye,
So bright, so dark as this?
A hopeless faith, a homeless people,
Yet searching for the most sacred place,
And knowing the real joy!

Salted with fire they seem, to show
How spirits lost in endless sorrow
May live on without decay.
Oh, what a terrible thought! yet cling to it
As long as this shining world lasts,
Or sin remains at heart.

And listen! among the flashing fire,
Mixing with sounds of fear and anger,
Soft Mercy’s quiet song—
It’s Abraham’s God who speaks so clearly,
His people’s cries have broken through the clouds,
He sees, He sees their wrong;

He has come down to break their chains;
Though His visible banner will never again wave over Sion;
It’s Sion, wherever they live,
Who, along with His true Israel,
Will recognize Him as powerful to save.

He will rescue them one by one,
Wherever the all-encompassing sun
   Sees them humbly kneel:
All that He asks from Israel,
Is just that the captive heart
   Feels its sorrow and burden.

Gentiles! with a steady yet terrible gaze
Turn this page of mystery,
   And don’t ignore the warning:
“Take off your shoes from your feet—
The place where humanity meets its God,
   Is definitely holy ground.”

You whose hearts are beating fast
With the rhythm of poetry,
Heirs to more than royal lineage,
Created by Heaven’s special grace,
God’s own work to do on earth,
   (If that phrase isn’t too daring,)
Bringing virtue to life anew,
   And a life that never ages—

Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Do you know who has given you your roles?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength you play the strings,
He has chosen you to lead
   His Hosannas here below;—
Rise up, and claim your glorious reward;
   Do not linger with sin and sorrow.

But if you keep silent,
Don’t think the song will stop—
Angels around His glory throne,
Stars that follow His guiding hand,
Flowers that bloom beneath our feet,
   Stones resting in the earth’s dark womb,
High and low will join in choir,
   Before His Name goes unblessed.

Lord, let every singer’s voice
Sing Your praise in the right way,
So that the harps of Your angels
Always find a fitting echo here:
We, of lesser birth,
   Who don’t dare to join on earth
In that divine song,
   Grant us the grace to listen well.

But if ungrateful silence shuts
Lips that could hint at the divine,
If poets in worshipful songs disrespect
The sacred, soul-captivating music,
(As in this messed-up world,
   The greatest things are often misused,)
Then, show Your power and mercy,
   Breathing nobility into the mundane;

Then wake into a divine sound
The very pavement of Your shrine,
Until we, like Heaven’s starry floor,
Barely reflect what we adore:
Though the voices are childlike,
   And the notes are out of tune,
You will recognize the music
   If it comes from childlike hearts.

“Dad, you are to me and dear mother,
And brother too, kind husband of my heart”—
So speaks Andromache in foreboding fear,
Before her hero leaves her for the last time—
So always, by Faith’s eternal light,
We acknowledge the Crucified in good times or bad.

Strange to our ears are the church bells of our home,
This scent of our old family fields
May fade away; and there may come a time
When the baby's kiss brings no pleasure
Even to the loving mother: but Your own
You can never forget, nor leave behind.

There are some who sigh that no loving heart is theirs,
None loves them the most—Oh, what a vain and selfish sigh!
Out of the depth of His love, He spares—
The Father spares the Son, so that He can die for you:
For you, He died—for you, He lives again:
He watches over you in His endless reign.

You are just as much His concern as if
No man or angel existed in Heaven or earth:
Just as sunbeams spread their glorious light
To illuminate worlds or bring joy to an insect:
They shine and shine with endless supply—
You are your Savior’s beloved—don’t look for more.

On you and yours, your struggle and your end,
Even in His moment of pain, He thought,
When, before the final pain would tear His soul,
The saved souls, one by one, came to His mind—
Two quiet nights and days
In peace for His distant hour He waits.

The vaulted rooms, where the martyrs of the past
Rest deep in the rocky walls of Sion,
Green terraces and arched fountains cold,
Where the cypress shade lies quiet and deep,
Dear sacred places of glory and sorrow,
Help us, just for an hour, to follow His thoughts high and low:

One heart-lifting hour! It may not be: The otherworldly thoughts have vanished from the earth, And just like the evening sunbeams fading from the sea Your footsteps, lost in Sion’s deep decline, Were erased from the sacred ground: yet every stone of hers is cherished; for You definitely belong here.

There’s a place in this holy valley
That felt You kneeling—touched Your humbled brow:
One Angel knows it. Oh, if only prayer could
Win that understanding! Surely every holy vow
Would fade less quickly from the restless soul,
Offered where Christ was laid in agony.

Might our tears mix with the blood
That fell from His suffering brow in the moonlight,
As we reflect on the bittersweet joy,
Until we’ve created a protective spell
To drive away negative thoughts as they appear,
Like birds with dark wings, that spoil our sacrifice.

So the heart dreams, flattering itself, dreams fondly;—
Otherwise, why, when the bitter waves
overflow,
Do we miss the light, Gethsemane, that shines
From your dear name, where in His story of sorrow
It glows, a faint kind star in winter’s sky?
Who reads it there in vain, has futilely seen Him die.

“Fill the bowl to the top, add plenty of spices, and pour
The forgetful dews: for the Cross is intense,
   The Cross is intense, and He
   Is gentler than a lamb.

“He cried by Lazarus’ grave—how will He handle
This heavy burden of pain? and His pale weak body
Is exhausted from many nights
Of grief and unease.

“His sweat last night was like great drops of blood,
And the heavy burden pressed Him down to the ground,
   Even the torturers hesitated
   To assist Him on His path.

“Fill the bowl to the brim, numb His aching senses
With healing sleep.”—O dreadful in Your suffering!
The burning thirst of death
Is upon You, and You try

The sleepy potion is gentle, and I won’t drink:
Not gloomy, nor in contempt, like an arrogant man
With a self-destructive hand
Setting his comfort aside:

But at first, Your all-seeing gaze
Looked from Your Father's embrace to the depths
Calculating with calm foresight
The endless fall;

So in the end, even though now you're experiencing mortal pain,
Made an heir, and temporarily stripped of Your glory,
With unwavering gaze
You face all the chaos.

You will feel everything, so that you can empathize with everyone;
And you would rather wrap yourself in strong pain,
Than cast a shadow over your soul,
So clear in suffering,

Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time
O most complete and perfect sacrifice,
Renewed in every heartbeat
That on the tiring Cross

Told the long hours of dying, as, one by one,
The life-strings of that tender heart broke;
Even sinners, taught by You,
Face Sorrow head-on,

And invite her in warmly, without being tricked
By false comforts and worldly charms:—
   And yet not entirely without solace;
   For when was Joy ever so precious,

As the deep calm settled in, “Father, forgive,”
Or, “Be with Me in Paradise today?”
And, although the struggle is intense,
Yet in His final breath

Love conquers pain; the soul that once
Felt abandoned, experiences her God once more,
And in her Father’s embrace
Peacefully fades away.

O Lord my God, please do Your holy will—
I will stay still—
I won't move, so I don’t let go of Your support,
And disrupt the peace
That soothes me, holding me close to my Father’s heart,
In complete rest.

Wild fancy, peace! You must not deceive me With your false smile: I know your flattery and your cheating ways; Be quiet, Praise, Blind guide with a siren voice, and blinding all That hear your call.

Come, Self-devotion, noble and true,
Thoughts that last in gratitude, too,
Though our greatest hopes may fall apart,
And our closest hearts may break and smart.
Come, Resignation, gentle and kind,
And let me touch your calm, serene mind,
And see in your peaceful, pale gaze
The blessing of those who, through faith, raise
Their hearts beyond the tangible, and learn to cherish
God alone, and the joys that never perish.

They say, those who understand divine life,
And look up with eagle eyes,
That for each golden crown on high,
Adorned with heavenly jewels,
Set aside for our Lord’s redeemed,
There hangs a shining crown,
All studded with pure and vibrant light,
Too bright for a sinner’s eyes,
Made for pure souls, and for those
Who strive for the martyr’s crown.

Nor think that those who aim for that bliss
Must carve their path through blood and fire.
The struggles of a wounded heart
Are sharper than an enemy’s dart.
Often in Life’s quiet shade resting,
In despair without protesting,
With no hope on earth to find
A reflection in a kindred mind,
There are humble souls who hardly know
Their daily battles are an Angel’s show,
Or that the hardship they bear so meek
Will earn them in Heaven a martyr’s peak.

And there are souls that seem to live
Above this earth—so strong a charm
Surrounds their steps, wherever they go,
From fulfilled hopes and shared love.
If their thoughts are set on high,
And they don’t forget the source in the stream,
If they’re ready to leave the joy they know,
Following the Lamb wherever He goes,
By purest pleasures untouched
To worship either a spouse or child;
Such united souls our God will recognize
As perfect beings around His throne.

Thus everywhere we find our suffering God,
And where He walked
May guide our steps: the Cross on Calvary
Lifted high
Shines on the martyr host, a guiding light
In open battle.

To the silent struggles of the lonely heart
He shares
The worth of his midnight pain,
When no one was near,
Except God and one good angel, to calm
The storm’s fury.

Mortal! If life smiles on you, and you find
Everything to your liking,
Think of who once came down from Heaven to Hell,
To befriend you:
Then you shall be brave enough to give up, at His loving call,
Your best, your all.

“O Father! not My will, but Yours be done”—
So spoke the Son.
Let this be our comfort, calming the harsher sounds
Of grief and joy:
That we may hold on forever to Your embrace
In perfect peace!

“O Holy mountain of my God,
      How do your towers lie in ruins,
   How you are torn apart and scattered,
      Under the harsh and desolate sky!”
   This is how, on his day of fasting,
   The “Man of Loves” was eager to pray,
   His window open toward his beloved west,
Mourning the ruined home he still loves the most.

Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now,
      To send a powerful prayer to Heaven
   For God’s new Israel, fallen so low,
      Yet looking as beautiful as ever,
   Like Zion in her peak of pride,
   With queens serving at her side,
   With kings as her protectors, seated high,
And surrounded by the world’s too enticing glamour.

It’s true, neither winter
      nor the sickly charm of sweltering summer
   can hold back your growth;
   The crashing waves of the south
      don’t crash against such a solitary island,
   But you, rich vine, are rooted here,
   Bearing the fruit of life or death,
   Providing a clearer witness every day,
To your Almighty Creator and His unwavering control.

Oh! It’s heartbreaking to think that bitter grapes
      Should gather around your healthiest branch!
   God’s messenger is a heartless servant,
      Who, if he had the courage, would gladly be silent!
   Such is this terrible world we live in,
   Which, despite its guilt in acknowledging You,
   Yet doesn’t dare to say goodbye to You,
Out of sheer pride and for the sake of its so-called Reason.

What should we do then? if everywhere
Men kneel to Christ, the pure and humble,
Yet are filled with anger, overflowing with pride,
Don’t we still have our faith to pursue?
No—but in unwavering humility
Continue to kneel to Him, who loves to bless
The prayer that patiently waits for Him; and with trembling
To keep the lingering flame in your own heart alive.

Dark frowned the future even on him,
The loving and beloved Seer,
When he saw, through dim shadows,
The boundary of the eternal year;
He alone of all humanity
Was named to be heir of glory then.
Otherwise, it would have bruised too sore his tender heart
To see God's ransomed world depart in
wrath and flame.

Then look no further: or closer watch
      Your path in Earth’s confusing ways,
   For every sight your eye can see
      Of what is to come in those frightening days:
   So when the Archangel’s word is spoken,
   And Death’s deep slumber finally broken,
   In mercy you may feel the heavenly hand,
And unharmed, stand before your Savior.

Is it not strange, the darkest hour
      That ever dawned on sinful earth
   Should touch the heart with softer power
      For comfort than an angel’s joy?
That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn
Sooner than where the stars of Christmas shine?

Sooner than where the Easter sun
      Shines brightly on that open grave,
   And back and forth the news spreads,
      “Who died to heal, has risen to save?”
Sooner than where upon the Savior’s friends
The very Comforter in light and love comes down?

Yet that's just how it is: for rightly
The bitter herbs of earth are
Set,
Until softened by the Savior’s prayer,
And with the Savior’s blood wet,
They turn sweet, and drop holy balm,
Soft as a martyr’s peaceful deathbed calm.

All change to something pleasant—but
      Most of all
      That bitter sting for those who are proud,
   When our overconfident hopes fade away,
      Or when Friendship, after being tested, turns away,
Or Love, the flower that shuts up for protection
When harsh and selfish people come too close.

Then like a long-forgotten melody
Comes sweeping over the troubled heart
What sunny days had taught in vain
Of Jesus enduring shame and scorn,
As he still suffers in all humble hearts,
While we ride triumphantly and have the world at our command.

His pierced hands would futilely try to hide
      His face from harsh, reproachful stares,
   His ears are open to endure
      The wildest storms that words can unleash,
He who, with one rough word, someday,
Will sweep away their idol and their world for good.

But we can ease
      The festering wound created by our imagination,
   Down in some quiet retreat
      Like wounded travelers safely resting,
Where gentle breezes comfort troubled souls,
That Love still exists, and Patience will find peace.

O! shame beyond the harshest thought
      That evil spirit ever created,
   That sinners know what Jesus did,
      Yet feel their proud hearts untamed—
That souls in refuge, clinging to the Cross,
Should wince and fret at this world’s minor loss.

Lord of my heart, by Your last cry,
      Let not Your blood be wasted on earth—
   Look, I’m fainting at Your feet,
      My eyes are fixed on Your wounds,
My tired eyes on Your streaming wounds
Wait like the thirsty earth under April skies.

Wash me and dry these bitter tears,
      O let my heart not wander anymore,
   It’s Yours by vows, hopes, and fears.
      Long ago—O bring Your wanderer home;
To that dear home, safe in Your wounded side,
Where only broken hearts can hide their sin and shame.

At last, the worst is over, and you are laid
      deep in your dark bed;
   All still and cold beneath that dreary stone
      your sacred form is gone;
   Around those lips where power and mercy lingered,
      the dews of death have clung;
   The dull earth covers you, and your enemies
you sleep, a silent corpse, wrapped in funeral chains.

Are you really asleep? Or has your spirit gone, Roaming free among the dead? Whether in Eden's gardens your welcoming voice Wakes Abraham to celebrate, Or in some darker place your presence guides The crowded group of souls; That, just as your blood redeemed the earth, Your suffering might liberate the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow.

Wherever You roam, one happy soul, we know,
      Seen at Your side in sorrow,
   Waits for Your victories—even as all the blessed
      With him and You shall rest.
   Each on his cross; by You we hang for a bit,
      Watching Your patient smile,
   Until we’ve learned to say, “It’s justly done,
Only in glory, Lord, Your sinful servant accept.”

Soon you'll take us to your peaceful place
To rest for just an hour,
Until your chosen ones are counted, and the grave
Calls you to come and save:
Then, carried on your chest, we'll descend
Again to merge with the earth,
Earth all purified with bright heavenly flames,
Tinged with holy blood, and filled with pure desires.

Meanwhile, with every son and saint of Yours
      Along the glorious path,
   Taking turns sitting by Your sacred feet
      We’ll share a sweet communion,
   Recognizing them by their looks and voices, and thanking them all
      For helping us in our struggles,
   For words of hope and shining examples given
To show through dark skies that there is light in Heaven.

O come that day, when in this restless heart
Earth will give up her part,
When in the grave with You my body will rest,
My soul will be blessed with You!
But wait, how bold—Christ stays with You
In the rock’s gloomy sides:
He will squeeze celestial dew from this stone
If only He finds this prisoner’s heart faithful and true.

When your tears have dried up, and art stands alone
      with the memories of lost blessings,
   imagine you were taken down from the cross and laid
      in Jesus’ tomb;
   Take Moses’ staff, the staff of prayer, and call
      forth from the rocky wall
   the source of holy blood; and raise high
your struggling soul that feels so empty and dry.

Prisoner of Hope, you are—look up and sing
      In hope of promised spring.
   Just like the father's favorite lay
      Beside the desert road,
   He didn’t know how, but believed his God would save
      Even from that living grave,
   So, buried with our Lord, we’ll set our eyes
To the decaying world, until Angels tell us to rise.

Oh! day of days! Will free hearts find no “minstrel rapture” for you? You are this Sun of other days, They shine by reflecting your rays:

Enthroned in your royal space,
You shine your light throughout the year;
Sundays shine even brighter with you,
Like an Easter Day every week:

And on weekdays, following in their path,
The fullness of your blessing arrives,
Until all, both resting land and work,
Become one Lord’s Day of holy joy.

Then wake, my soul, to greater ambitions,
And light your altar fires earlier:
The world is on its path for a few hours,
And doesn’t think of you, blessed day:

Or, if she thinks, it is in scorn:
The spring light of Easter morning
To her dark gaze feels no brighter
Than Reason’s or the Law’s pale beams.

“Where is your Lord?” she asks mockingly:
“Where is His pay? We know His duties;
You claim to be the sons of a King:
Show us your crowns and treasures.”

We, in the words of Truth, respond,
(An angel brought them from the sky above,)
“Our crown, our treasure isn't here,
It's kept up in the highest realm:

"I think your wisdom is leading you the wrong way,
To search for a Christian's happiness on earth;
We no longer look at the lifeless stone;
Our only Lord has risen and is gone."

Yet even the lifeless stone is precious
For thoughts of Him who recently lay here;
And the lowly world, now that Christ has died,
Is elevated and glorified.

No longer a place of death to guard
The remnants of lost innocence,
A tomb of destruction and decay;
The blocking stone is moved away:

It’s now a space where angels come and go
With heavenly news,
And in the ears of those who grieve say,
“Come, see the place where Jesus lay:”

It's now a shrine, where Love can find
Christ everywhere honored and shining:
Always collecting sweet memories,
Wherever she places her devoted feet.

Oh! joy to Mary, finally lifted,
When she was roused from crying over His shroud,
By His own calm, comforting voice,
Calling her name, as if still His own!

Joy to the faithful Three renewed,
As they happily continued their mission!
Blessed are those who spread Christ's word,
So that He may meet them on their path!

So it remains: in holy tears,
In lonely moments, Christ appears:
In social times, if you want to see Christ,
You must turn everything into acts of charity.

Let's go up and see the newborn stream
Just flowing from its mossy home,
Marking the heather-covered hill
With a shiny green line.

Can you predict her daring journey,
What obstacles she will overcome or break,
How far in the ocean's swell
Her rising waves will reach?

Maybe that little brook will flow
The protection of some great kingdom,
Carry ships back and forth
With kings at their helm.

Or can you guess how far away
Some sister nymph, lying beside her urn
Relaxing night and day,
Among reeds
and mountain ferns,

Nurses her store, with yours to mix
When many a moor and valley are behind,
Then in the vast sea conclude
Their pure lives at last?

Even so, who knows the path of prayer?
It emerges in silence wherever it wants,
Springs from the unseen, and flows
At first as a solitary stream:

But streams will join it soon
From a thousand caring hearts,
Together rising high
Their song in many parts.

Unheard by everyone except angels
The good Cornelius knelt alone,
Nor did he imagine his prayers and
Tears would aid a world in ruins.

The while on his rooftop
The beloved Apostle to his Lord
In quiet contemplation
For divine vision soared.

Far over the glowing western sea
His hopeful brow was lifted high,
Where, like an angel’s
Train, the shiny water sparkled.

The saint by the ocean prayed,
This soldier in his chosen spot,
Where everything he saw
Felt sacred in that moment.

To each unknown, his brother's prayer,
Yet true brothers in deepest love
Were they—and now they
Share fraternal joys above.

They go through Christ’s open gate each day
   They see the Gentile spirits pushing in,
      Elevating their status
         With greater happiness.

What civic wreath for friends saved
Shone ever with such lasting light,
Or when did dangers faced
Feel so rewarding to veterans?

TO THE SNOWDROP.

You first-born of the year’s joy,
Pride of the dewy meadow,
In spring green and pure white,
Your sacred robes, dressed:

It’s not because your drooping form
Sinks gracefully in its nest,
When chilly shadows from the gathering storm
Frighten your tender heart;

Nor for that wild river island
   Beneath the willow branches,
Where, like a child's curls,
   You weave your cheerful circle;

It’s not for these I love you, dear—
Your shy, turned-away smiles
Promise a joyful year,
One of Life’s fairy islands.

They sparkle in the winter moon,
And brighten the cold day,
And remind us, everything will shine soon
As green and bright as they.

Is there a heart that loves spring,
   That can deny its beauty?
Yet people doubt when angels share
   From Heaven their Easter news:

When holy women and mothers talk
About Christ's abandoned bed,
And voices that tell us not to search
For the treasure among the dead,

And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart,
Your Lord has indeed risen,
Let go of Pleasure, set aside Care,
And hurry to His presence;”

We smile with contempt: and yet we know
They sought the grave so soon,
Their hearts, which now shine bright,
Lost in a darkened gloom.

They who have searched but don’t expect to find,
Don’t have such a bright look:
They, who have gained their worldly peace,
Move forward with respect.

But where in kind spirits, fear
And joy come together,
These surely have seen the angels close,
And kissed the Savior’s feet.

Nor let the Pastor’s grateful gaze
Look down on their struggling story,
As they lie on their humble bed,
Captives of need and sorrow.

O guide us, when our faithless hearts
Would drift away from You,
Where Patience teaches her sweet skill
Beneath some cottage roof:

Revive our fading flames, to burn
As high as her songs fly,
And from our scholars, let’s discover
Our own overlooked knowledge.

First Father of the holy seed,
If you are still called upon in times of need,
   Count me as one of Your own,
Not entirely an outcast if I show,
(You delight in miracles of love),
   Hear me, from Your mercy-throne!

Upon Your altar's golden horn
Help me to place my trembling hand,
Though stained with Christian blood;—
The blood of souls redeemed by You,
But, while I wandered or idly dreamed,
Lost to be found no more.

For often, when summer leaves were bright,
And every flower was soaked in sunlight,
   In sunny moments gone by,
My stubborn heart would break free
From where the sacred shadows were,
   Where fate had placed me.

I thought it was beneath me to stay
A hermit in a quiet space,
While, joyfully passing by,
Wild imagination played his tune,
And gathered all his brave crew
In the world's curious gaze.

I would have joined him—but often
Your whispered warnings, kind and soft,
My better instincts recognized.
“My servant, leave the world behind—
Safe at the feet of Jesus’ throne
Be peaceful and be blessed.”

“Does it seem to you like a stingy hand
that has asked you to stand closest to Heaven?
To touch and carry the ark,
With the incense of a pure heart’s desire
to fill the censer’s sacred fire,
to wear the snow-white Ephod?”

Why should we desire the worldly crown,
On which the Savior chose to smile,
   To whom His keys were granted,
Who leads the choir where angels gather,
With heavenly food our friends welcome,
   And serve the drink of Heaven?

When sadness is all we seek,
We don't have to avoid our daily routine,
   And hide away for peace;
The plants we need to cure our grief
Are familiar along our way,
   Our everyday surroundings bring comfort.

Around each pure home shrine
Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twist,
   Our living rooms are altars all;
The prayers of hungry souls and the needy,
Like armed angels at the door,
   Our unseen enemies terrify.

Alms all around and hymns inside—
What evil eye can charm and guide
Where guardians like these surround?
If by chance a careless heart should wander,
Sure, thoughts of these will bring it back
Before it's lost in foolishness.

O joys, that are sweetest in fading,
Don’t fall away like withered leaves,
   But with the quiet breath
Of violets drooping one by one,
Once their fragrant work is done,
   Are carried high in death!

O for a sculptor’s hand,
   That you could take your stand,
Your wild hair floating in the eastern breeze,
   Your entranced yet open gaze
   Fixed on the desert haze,
Like someone who, deep in heaven, sees some airy spectacle.

In the dark and vast outline
Their frightening shadows loom
These giant shapes of empires on their path
To destruction: one by one
They rise and then they fade,
Yet in the Prophet’s heart, the dreams of greed remain.

No sun or star shines so brightly
   In all the world of light
That they could pull his gaze from Heaven below:
   He hears the Almighty’s voice,
   He sees the angel’s sword,
Yet his heart and treasures remain grounded on earth.

Look! From your silver field,
To him and us revealed,
One gentle star glides down, to dwell on earth.
Chained as they are below,
Our eyes can see it glow,
And as it rises again, we can follow its brightness well.

To him, it stood out from a distance,
A sign of fierce battle,
The banner of his Lord's triumphant anger:
But up close, it shines,
Its calming glow flows
Around the green walls of our home and along our church path.

We stay in the tents
That he watched from afar
Like beautiful cedars by the water's edge,
While seven red altar-fires
Rose in curling spirals,
Where on the mountain he observed his dark and terrifying magic.

He watched until morning's light
lit up the lake and meadow,
And willow-shaded streams that quietly flow
around the lined banners,
where by their own symbols
The tired tribes from the desert rest in sight of Canaan.

He watched until knowledge
Came upon his soul like flame,
Not like those random magic fires:
But true prophetic light
Flashed over him, high and bright,
Flashed once, and faded away, leaving his thoughts in darkness.

And can he help but fear,
When he feels his God so close,
That when he wants to curse, his powerless tongue
Only speaks in blessing?—
Unfortunately! the world he loves
Has wrapped too tight around his heart like a tangled veil.

Scepter and Star divine,
Who in Your innermost shrine
Have made us worshippers, O claim Your own;
More than Your seers we know—
O teach our love to grow
Up to Your heavenly light, and reap what You have sown.

Alright I can guess and sense
            Why Autumn feels sad;
      But the springtime air should ease my sorrow,
            Spring should be happy and bright:
   Yet as I wander along this violet bank,
      The gentle sweetness feels like it’s stifling me,
   I sit down next to the hazel grove,
And sigh, wishing my exhaustion were gone completely.

Like a bright shifting cloud
            Gray flowers sparkle there,
      Chirps surround a lively crowd
            Of larks in the cleanest air.
   Shame on anyone who longs for blessings lost,
      Or brings back the haunting memories of pain and wrong,
   When nature sings of joy and hope only,
Learning her happy lesson in her own sweet time.

Nor should the proud heart say,
            In her self-torturing hour,
      The labor pains must have their way,
            The aching brow must bow.
   To us long ago the glorious Child was born,
      Our struggles should be forgotten, or only seem
   Like a sad vision told for joy at dawn,
For joy that we have woken and found it was just a dream.

Mysterious to all thought
A mother’s peak of happiness,
When her eager lips are met
With her baby’s thrilling kiss.
O never shall it fade, the sacred light
That shines that moment in her gentle gaze,
In the endless distance merging bright
Her child’s hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.

No need for her to cry
            Like Thracian wives of old,
      Except when in joy still and deep
            Her grateful heart overflows.
   They grieved to let their treasure go to sea,
      Certain of the storm, unaware of their guide:
   She welcomes the danger and the ache,
For she knows well the reward of where they can safely hide.

She rejoices that someone is born
            Into a world that is forgiven,
      To beautify her Father’s home,
            And live with her in Heaven.
   I have seen, in the enchanting hour of Spring,
      When the happy Earth is giving all her best,
   A gentle girl lean over a beloved flower,
And wish it were worthier to rest in a Parent’s heart.

My Savior, can it ever be
That I would gain by losing You?
The watchful mother stays close by,
Though her baby is fast asleep;
For if he wakes and finds her gone,
She knows she couldn't handle his cries.
But I am weaker than a child,
And You are more than a loving mother;
Without You, Heaven would be a mess;
How can I live without You here!

“It's good for you that I should
“You linger yet a while below;”—
It’s Your own gracious promise, Lord!
Your saints have proven the faithful word,
When heaven’s bright, endless avenue
Opened wide before their eager view,
And homeward to Your Father’s throne,
Still fading, shining in their sight,
Your shadowy chariot soared on;
They followed You up the abyss of light.

You tell us to celebrate; they can't help but not grieve,
Instead, they return home joyfully,
To their home and God's, that blessed place,
Where He still shines on Abraham's descendants,
Waiting there in prayer and blessings,
Like supplicants at their King’s gate,
Who is ready to generously help
The glory of His crowning day,
But withholds His gifts for a moment,
Making them even more welcomed by that short wait:

In doubt they wait, but not without blessings;
They don't doubt their Master’s peace,
Nor the kind intention of Heaven—
Who gave His Son; surely He has given everything—
But in ecstatic wonder they contemplate
What path the friendly flow might take,
And their imaginations wander far and wide,
And to the peak of their amazement they stretch,
What hidden miracle of love
Could make their Savior’s departure worthwhile.

The days of hope and prayer are gone,
The day of comfort has finally arrived,
The eternal gates swing open again
And look! A royal procession—
From the distant depth of light once more
The waves of glory pour down to earth:
They separate like raindrops in mid-air,
But never did a noon shower fall so softly,
Nor did an evening rainbow shine so beautifully
To tired shepherds in their dry shelter.

Swiftly and directly, each flame's tongue
Came through the clouds and breeze, steady and strong,
And darted to its resting place
On the gentle brow of blessed Jesus.
That living gleam hasn’t faded yet,
And those soft lightnings still shine bright;
Wherever the Lord is, they are there;
In every heart that welcomes them,
They light His altar every day,
To inspire zeal and burn away sin.

Soft as the feathers of Jesus’ Dove
They nurture the soul to heavenly love;
The struggling spark of good inside,
Just smothered by the fight with sin,
They bring to life a vibrant glow,
The pure flame spreading high and low.
Did I say that prayer and hope were gone?
   No, blessed Spirit! but through You,
The Church’s prayer finds wings to soar,
   The Church’s hope finds eyes to see.

Then, fainting soul, get up and sing;
Rise up, but stay grounded on your journey;
Ascend, for Heaven is gained through prayer,
Stay grounded, for you're not there yet;
Until Death sets the weary spirit free,
Your God has said, 'It's good for you
To walk by faith and not by sight:
Trust it for a little while;
Soon you'll understand the mystery right
In the full brightness of His smile.

Or if you crave more knowledge,
Ask your own heart, that willing servant
To all that brings you sadness or harm
Should you not need some powerful magic
To bring you to your Savior’s side,
Though He had chosen to stay with you?
The Spirit must stir the dark depths,
   The Dove must rest on the Cross,
Otherwise we would all continue sinning or sleeping
   With Christ in view, turning our gain to loss.

Now there is a serious pause in earth and heaven;
      The Conqueror now
      Has broken His chains,
And Angels wonder why He remains here:
   Yet hasn't man learned his lesson,
   How endless love should be repaid.

Deep is the silence like a summer afternoon,
      When a light rain
      Will start to fall soon,
A gentle rain, refreshing the tired shelter—
   O sweetly then from afar is heard
   The clear call of some solitary bird.

So let your turtle dove's sorrowful call rise
In doubt and fear
Through darkening skies,
And pierce, O Lord, your justly-sealed ear,
Where on the rooftop, all night long
She sings her lonely, trembling song.

Teach her to recognize and cherish her time for prayer,
      And always,
      As faith becomes less common,
Open her heart, and give all it holds
   In more sacred love and simpler promises,
   As befits a lost spouse coming back.

Not as before, but with a stronger cry,
      On the mountain
      She now must lie,
Till Your dear love erases the sad record
   Of her rebellious lineage,
   Pitying the mother in the son.

But mainly (because she knows You’re most angry
      By sacred things
      Being disrespected and ruined),
Mainly for Aaron’s descendants she spreads her wings,
   If she can just win
   One leaf from You
   From the tree of reconciliation.

For what can heal when holy water does harm!
      Or who can guide
      Across desert plains
Your beloved but sinful people wandering far,
   If Aaron’s hand, unwavering, creates
   An idol made of earthly gold?

Therefore, her tears are bitter, and as deep
      Her ominous sigh,
      As, while people sleep,
Heartbroken mothers sigh, lying awake,
   To think about some beloved child
   Wandering in the uncertain wilds of youth.

Therefore, in her fearful dreams, her inner vision
Is eager to stay—
What harsh light
Will the final darkness of the world chase away,
The Mediator in His anger
Coming down the path of lightning.

Yet, just for a moment, offended Savior, pause,
      In the act of breaking
      Your outraged laws,
O spare Your rebels for Your own dear sake;
   Withdraw Your hand, and don't crush to the ground
   The promise of our second birth.

It’s forfeited just like the first—we possess it all—
      But for love’s sake
      Don’t let it slip away;
Instead, at Your touch let hidden hearts awaken,
   That are closest to Your altar,
   Yet least perceive the sacred things.

Teacher of teachers! Priest of priests! from You
      The heartfelt prayer
      Must rise, to free
First Levi, then all Israel, from the trap.
   You are our Moses unseen—
   Speak for us, or we will be lost.

Gentle cloud, that while the May breeze
Sings her joyful mornings in the leafy arch,
Draw your bright veil across the heavenly
Ready path for an angel’s glorious march:

My soul is jealous of my eye,
That it should soar and glide with you so fast,
While my grounded thoughts lie half-buried,
Or roam freely around this earthly wasteland.

Chains of my heart, be gone!
I will rise and, with the power of love,
Chase the bright path before it disappears,
My Savior's way to His home above.

Sure, when I get to the point where earth
melts into nothing from the clear view,
Heaven will overcome the pull of my origins.
And I will sink into that sea of light:

Till resting by the incarnate Lord,
Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake,
I see Him, how by seraph hosts adored,
He’s still aware of earth’s lowest cares.

The sun and every servant star,
All space, beyond the reach of angel wings,
Wait for His word: and yet He halts His ride
For every sigh a remorseful seeker brings.

He hears the quiet tear
For all the songs of the endless sky—
   And should our dreams of music block our ears
To His soul-touching voice that’s always near?

No, gracious Savior—but just as now
Our thoughts have followed You to Your glory-throne
So help us always to bow with You
Where human sorrow whispers its quiet moan.

We can’t just stand and stare for too long,
Even though we’re looking up at Heaven
Where, hidden behind the shining angel crowd,
We see Christ's triumphant ascent slowly rising.

No fear because we will soon see,
Faster than it fades, that light will return,
When coming out from his cloud of fiery gold
Our worn-out bodies will feel the true sun and come to life.

Then we will see You as You truly are,
Forever focused in a meaningful gaze,
But in a way that elevates the newly created heart,
Age after age, in deeper love and praise.

The Earth that in her friendly embrace
Creates a cozy nest for the down,
Where carried by the warm south-west
   It floats freely,
Gives, gratefully, of her finest,
   To nurture her treasure:

True to her duty, tree, plant, or grass,
She provides for every scattered seed,
And to her Master with devoted care
   Grants great abundance:
Year after year she works without rest,
   And will not stop.

Woe to these empty hearts of ours,
Where You've planted heavenly flowers,
And watered them with more soothing showers
Than ever fell
In Eden, on the fragrant groves—
Yet we produce nothing.

Largely You give, gracious Lord,
Largely Your gifts should be returned;
Freely You give, and Your word
Is, “Freely give.”
Only the one who forgets to save
Has learned to live.

Wisely You give—all around
Your equal rays are resting found,
Yet varying so on different ground
They pierce and strike,
That no two rosy cups are crowned
With dew alike:

Even so, quietly, like You,
Comes gentle Charity,
Softening her gifts, which seem so generous,
By timing and placing,
Until not a sorrow the harsh world sees,
But finds her kindness:

Eyes for the blind, and feet for the lame,
Wholesome blame for sinners' shame,
Food and warmth for starving bodies,
She brings in turns;
To humbled souls that drown in shame,
She lends wings to heaven:

Leads them the way our Savior walked,
And reveals Love’s treasure still untouched;
As when the clear skies were torn apart.
Opening His path,
Nor has His Holy Spirit been sent
To our home.

Ten days the eternal doors were shown
Were wondering (as the Almighty commanded)
Whom Love, enthroned, would send to help
Those who mourn,
Left orphaned in Earth’s bleak shadow
As soon as born.

Open they stand, so that prayers in crowds
Can rise up high, and holy songs,
Such incense as rightfully belongs
To the true shrine,
Where stands the Healer of all wrongs
In divine light;

The golden censer in His hand,
He offers hearts from every land,
Tied to His own by the gentlest bond
   Of silent Love:
Around Him, winged blessings stand
   Ready to move.

A little while, and they'll fly
From Heaven to Earth, attendants gather
On the life-giving Holy Spirit
Speeding His journey,
With all that’s sacred and sweet,
To light up the saints.