The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

As Lord of this terrestrial sphere,
Semblance divine did Man appear;
Just moulded by the hand of God,
The soil of virgin earth he trod,
And when through his mysterious frame
In gushes of pure rapture came
Bright feelings born of innocence,
And sanction'd by Omnipotence,
O God! Thine Image was enshrined
In the clear depths of his calm mind.

“Man in Our Image,”—mighty thought!
With more than human meaning fraught;
For, how can sinner's filmèd eye
The glories of that Speech descry?
How can the soil'd and earth-bound soul
Itself release from blind control,
And thus, from passion nobly free,
Hail the crown'd work of Deity,—

Perfection in the dust began,
God's “image” in the soul of man?

Alas! the words beyond us soar;
Dead Paradise revives no more;
For in the soil where thorns abound
God's curse still preaches from the ground,
And Labour, with its sunken brow
Of weariness, fulfils it now;
And in the soul, lo! all is sin;
Darkness and death prevail within,
Where Self is like a Satan throned,
A hell preferr'd, and God disown'd!

God's “image,” is it seen below
In this sad world of blight and woe?
Where can we view its peerless grace,
And look upon that perfect face
Which lightens up with Deity,
Till Angels their own likeness see,
And transcripts of such glory shine,
That they reflect the looks Divine?
In priest, or poet, saint, or sage,
In parted years, or present age?

Go! search mankind from pole to pole,
The archives of the past unroll,
Consult the chart of history,
As read in hoar antiquity,
Select, combine, and concentrate
The models of our good and great,
The paramounts of man and mind,
The lords and lights of human Kind,—
And, then we challenge each and all,
To make God's “image,” since the fall!

In human light a darkness lies;
All human love a hate supplies;
Our human wisdom folly stains;
O'er human strength a weakness reigns;
To human virtue baseness clings;
And Glory mounts on sullied wings;
Love, Truth, and Wisdom, Virtue, all
Our wav'ring creeds perfection call,
What are they, in God's balance weigh'd,
But sin, by gilded self array'd?

Thus, imperfection mars and maims
What Nature for her noblest claims;
The upas-blight, the poisoning breath
Of inward guilt and moral death,
Lurks in the soul of whatsoe'er
Men laurel as the bright and fair.—
“God's image,” then, oh! where on earth
Can Faith behold its beauteous worth?
Where can we sun our hearts awhile
In virtues which no stains defile?

Thou Third in Godhead! Holy Ghost,
The Christian's life, the Church's boast,
Pure Helper of the heart's distress,
And Cheerer of lone weariness,
The inward Sun of heaven-born souls,
Who all their prayer and praise controls,
To Thee, true Paraclete! we owe
The all of God that lives below,—
What broken fragments yet may shine
Of that whole “Image” once Divine.

There is a sacramental birth,
A promise of baptismal worth,
A life from heaven to earth sent down,
A jewel dropt from Jesu's crown,
A power that with celestial art
Can renovate the ruin'd heart;
Unheard, unseen, unscann'd, unknown,
This wonder-work is all Thine own;
The power is felt, 'tis born of Thee,
Yet who, dread Spirit! grace can see?

But, let God's image be restored,
Let guilt be wash'd, and sin deplored,
And saintly virtues, meek and mild,
Will shadow forth God's chosen child;
Without, within, by faith and prayer
Will breathe that reverential air,
That shows the world what Christ hath done,
The trophies which the Cross hath won
In winning back what Adam lost,—
A forfeit Soul, at such a cost!

But oh, blest Lord! if men would see
The perfect type of Deity,
Then, from the Church's child of grace
We turn, to look on Thy sad face,
O Man of Sorrows! Son of God!
As o'er the world Thy way was trod,
Each living impress of Thy love
To man below shows God above,
While in Thy doctrine, death, and tears,
Jehovah in our flesh appears.