 | Songs for Sufferers |  |
22
NOTHING COMMON.
Nothing is common now, or coarse or mean,
My basin, towel, sponge, and all my vesture
Are used by Christ, who maketh vile things clean;
Touched by the Hand whereon the world doth lean,
These in due season show His lightest gesture.
He is the blessing gained, He is the loss,
And everywhere I see the shadowed Cross.
My basin, towel, sponge, and all my vesture
Are used by Christ, who maketh vile things clean;
Touched by the Hand whereon the world doth lean,
These in due season show His lightest gesture.
He is the blessing gained, He is the loss,
And everywhere I see the shadowed Cross.
My bedroom shoes but prove His piercèd Feet,
The jewel marks of nails, the bitter branding
Whereof the carpet is a reflex sweet;
My Lord, my Life, at every turn I meet,
The very stains tell where my Love was standing.
No corner but is populous with Him,
And even the dark from glory groweth dim.
The jewel marks of nails, the bitter branding
Whereof the carpet is a reflex sweet;
My Lord, my Life, at every turn I meet,
The very stains tell where my Love was standing.
No corner but is populous with Him,
And even the dark from glory groweth dim.
I feel His kiss laid on each loathsome sore,
My wounds are His and gathered to His Greatness
Which out of trifles ever waxeth more;
It is His Flesh with many a bleeding pore,
I rest in His own infinite sedateness.
A temple, a palace mine—yea, heaven I hold,
And whatsoe'er Christ toucheth turns to gold.
My wounds are His and gathered to His Greatness
Which out of trifles ever waxeth more;
It is His Flesh with many a bleeding pore,
I rest in His own infinite sedateness.
A temple, a palace mine—yea, heaven I hold,
And whatsoe'er Christ toucheth turns to gold.
| Songs for Sufferers | |