The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
October 5
BROKEN WINGS |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
|
|
 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
319
October 5 BROKEN WINGS
“They . . . brake the pitchers that were in their hands.”—
Judges vii. 19.
O God, I want to soar, but cannot rise
From earth to Thy great Heaven,
Above the shining shame I do despise;
To pass, although through hell, to Paradise—
But for life's bitter leaven.
I feel within me awful hidden powers,
Which seek Thy Light like pale immurèd flowers
Forth-stretching to their sun;
And in my breast, like flame, all centuries' dowers
For ever leap and run.
But, though the eagle in me strain the strings,
Still in Thy Mercy break, O break these wings.
From earth to Thy great Heaven,
Above the shining shame I do despise;
To pass, although through hell, to Paradise—
But for life's bitter leaven.
I feel within me awful hidden powers,
Which seek Thy Light like pale immurèd flowers
Forth-stretching to their sun;
And in my breast, like flame, all centuries' dowers
For ever leap and run.
But, though the eagle in me strain the strings,
Still in Thy Mercy break, O break these wings.
It is no hour for creatures wrought of dust,
To dream of selfish flying;
When fragile ones in my poor pity trust
Or out of darkness with dim faces thrust,
And toil on dead or dying.
How shall I let the eagle in me flutter,
When woes eternal round me weep or mutter
The message I must hear?
How shall I dare that ecstasy to utter,
Dragged down by helpless fear?
Dear Father, though I have the strength of kings
In ocean tide, yet break these cruel wings.
To dream of selfish flying;
When fragile ones in my poor pity trust
Or out of darkness with dim faces thrust,
And toil on dead or dying.
How shall I let the eagle in me flutter,
When woes eternal round me weep or mutter
The message I must hear?
How shall I dare that ecstasy to utter,
Dragged down by helpless fear?
Dear Father, though I have the strength of kings
In ocean tide, yet break these cruel wings.
| The Prisoner of Love | |