Part 18

27.

On, eager, hungry, busy-seeking child, Rise up, turn round, run in, run up the stair. Far in a chamber from rude noise exiled, Thy father sits, pondering how thou dost fare. The mighty man will clasp thee to his breast: Will kiss thee, stroke the tangles of thy hair, And lap thee warm in fold on fold of lovely rest.

28.

The prince of this world came, and nothing found In thee, O master; but, ah, woe is me! He cannot pass me, on other business bound, But, spying in me things familiar, he Casts over me the shadow of his flight, And straight I moan in darkness--and the fight Begins afresh betwixt the world and thee.

29.

In my own heart, O master, in my thought, Betwixt the woolly sheep and hairy goat Not clearly I distinguish; but I think Thou knowest that I fight upon thy side. The how I am ashamed of; for I shrink From many a blow--am borne on the battle-tide, When I should rush to the front, and take thy foe by the throat.

30.

The enemy still hath many things in me; Yea, many an evil nest with open hole Gapes out to him, at which he enters free. But, like the impact of a burning coal, His presence mere straight rouses the garrison, And all are up in arms, and down on knee, Fighting and praying till the foe is gone.

OCTOBER.

REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good. Or if thou didst, it was so long ago I have forgotten--and never understood, I humbly think. At best it was a crude, A rough-hewn goodness, that did need this woe, This sin, these harms of all kinds fierce and rude, To shape it out, making it live and grow.

But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire. What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well, And I will help thee:--gently in thy fire I will lie burning; on thy potter's-wheel I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel; Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell, And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.

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

The faith I will, aside is easily bent; But of thy love, my God, one glimpse alone Can make me absolutely confident-- With faith, hope, joy, in love responsive blent. My soul then, in the vision mighty grown, Its father and its fate securely known, Falls on thy bosom with exultant moan.

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

From sleep I wake, and wake to think of thee. But wherefore not with sudden glorious glee? Why burst not gracious on me heaven and earth In all the splendour of a new-day-birth? Why hangs a cloud betwixt my lord and me? The moment that my eyes the morning greet, My soul should panting rush to clasp thy father-feet.

Is it because it is not thou I see, But only my poor, blotted fancy of thee? Oh! never till thyself reveal thy face, Shall I be flooded with life's vital grace. Oh make my mirror-heart thy shining-place, And then my soul, awaking with the morn, Shall be a waking joy, eternally new-born.

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

But when in the dim silver thou dost look, I do behold thy face, though blurred and faint. Oh joy! no flaw in me thy grace will brook, But still refine: slow shall the silver pass From bright to brighter, till, sans spot or taint, Love, well content, shall see no speck of brass, And I his perfect face shall hold as in a glass.

10.

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

11.

'Tis that I am not good--that is enough; I pry no farther--that is not the way. Here, O my potter, is thy making stuff! Set thy wheel going; let it whir and play. The chips in me, the stones, the straws, the sand, Cast them out with fine separating hand, And make a vessel of thy yielding clay.

12.

What if it take a thousand years to make me, So me he leave not, angry, on the floor!-- Nay, thou art never angry!--that would break me! Would I tried never thy dear patience sore, But were as good as thou couldst well expect me, Whilst thou dost make, I mar, and thou correct me! Then were I now content, waiting for something more.

13.

Only, my God, see thou that I content thee-- Oh, take thy own content upon me, God! Ah, never, never, sure, wilt thou repent thee, That thou hast called thy Adam from the clod! Yet must I mourn that thou shouldst ever find me One moment sluggish, needing more of the rod Than thou didst think when thy desire designed me.

14.

My God, it troubles me I am not better. More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown. My Father, help me--am I not thine own? Lo, other lords have had dominion o'er me, But now thy will alone I set before me: Thy own heart's life--Lord, thou wilt not abhor me!