1.
SO shall abundant entrance me be given Into the truth, my life's inheritance.
Lo! as the sun shoots straight from out his tomb, God-floated, casting round a lordly glance Into the corners of his endless room, So, through the rent which thou, O Christ, hast riven, I enter liberty's divine expanse.
2.
It will be so--ah, so it is not now!
Who seeks thee for a little lazy peace, Then, like a man all weary of the plough, That leaves it standing in the furrow's crease, Turns from thy presence for a foolish while, Till comes again the rasp of unrest's file, >From liberty is distant many a mile.
3.
Like one that stops, and drinks, and turns, and goes Into a land where never water flows, There travels on, the dry and thirsty day, Until the hot night veils the farther way, Then turns and finds again the bubbling pool--Here would I build my house, take up my stay, Nor ever leave my Sychar's margin cool.
4.
Keep me, Lord, with thee. I call from out the dark--Hear in thy light, of which I am a spark.
I know not what is mine and what is thine--Of branch and stem I miss the differing mark--But if a mere hair's-breadth me separateth, That hair's-breadth is eternal, infinite death.
For sap thy dead branch calls, O living vine!
5.
I have no choice, I must do what I can;
But thou dost me, and all things else as well;
Thou wilt take care thy child shall grow a man.
Rouse thee, my faith; be king; with life be one;
To trust in God is action's highest kind;
Who trusts in God, his heart with life doth swell;
Faith opens all the windows to God's wind.
6.
O Father, thou art my eternity.
Not on the clasp Of consciousness--on thee My life depends; and I can well afford All to forget, so thou remember, Lord.
In thee I rest; in sleep thou dost me fold;
In thee I labour; still in thee, grow old;
And dying, shall I not in thee, my Life, be bold?
7.
In holy things may be unholy greed.
Thou giv'st a glimpse of many a lovely thing, Not to be stored for use in any mind, But only for the present spiritual need.
The holiest bread, if hoarded, soon will breed The mammon-moth, the having-pride, I find.
'Tis momently thy heart gives out heart-quickening.
8.
It is thyself, and neither this nor that, Nor anything, told, taught, or dreamed of thee, That keeps us live. The holy maid who sat Low at thy feet, choosing the better part, Rising, bore with her--what a memory!
Yet, brooding only on that treasure, she Had soon been roused by conscious loss of heart.
9.
I am a fool when I would stop and think, And lest I lose my thoughts, from duty shrink.
It is but avarice in another shape.
'Tis as the vine-branch were to hoard the grape, Nor trust the living root beneath the sod.
What trouble is that child to thee, my God, Who sips thy gracious cup, and will not drink!
10.
True, faithful action only is the life, The grapes for which we feel the pruning knife.
Thoughts are but leaves; they fall and feed the ground.
The holy seasons, swift and slow, go round;
The ministering leaves return, fresh, large, and rife--But fresher, larger, more thoughts to the brain:--Farewell, my dove!--come back, hope-laden, through the rain.
11.
Well may this body poorer, feebler grow!
It is undressing for its last sweet bed;
But why should the soul, which death shall never know, Authority, and power, and memory shed?
It is that love with absolute faith would wed;
God takes the inmost garments off his child, To have him in his arms, naked and undefiled.
12.
Thou art my knowledge and my memory, No less than my real, deeper life, my love.
I will not fool, degrade myself to trust In less than that which maketh me say Me, In less than that causing itself to be.
Then art within me, behind, beneath, above--I will be thine because I may and must.
13.
Thou art the truth, the life. Thou, Lord, wilt see To every question that perplexes me.
I am thy being; and my dignity Is written with my name down in thy book;
Thou wilt care for it. Never shall I think Of anything that thou mightst overlook:--In faith-born triumph at thy feet I sink.
14.
Thou carest more for that which I call mine, In same sort--better manner than I could, Even if I knew creation's ends divine, Rousing in me this vague desire of good.
Thou art more to me than my desires' whole brood;
Thou art the only person, and I cry Unto the father I of this my I.
15.
Thou who inspirest prayer, then bend'st thine ear;
It, crying with love's grand respect to hear!
I cannot give myself to thee aright--With the triumphant uttermost of gift;
That cannot be till I am full of light--To perfect deed a perfect will must lift:--Inspire, possess, compel me, first of every might.
16.
I do not wonder men can ill believe Who make poor claims upon thee, perfect Lord;
Then most I trust when most I would receive.
