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6
IT SHALL COME TO PASS
Having worked in the Vineyard till evening and liberty came,
Having heard His encouraging voice and acknowledged His pence,
I am free from the care of the vines, and I turn to the flame
Of the sun, who is resting his chin on a far-away fence
In the western division of sky. If these shovel-worn hands
Are a signal of duty well done; if the grit on my brow
Is a proof of my vigorous service on hearing commands,
I may square my obedient shoulders, relaxing the vow,
And may drop, as a cone, in the bracken, and wonder my fill
In the dominant huddle of pines on the crest of the hill.
Having heard His encouraging voice and acknowledged His pence,
I am free from the care of the vines, and I turn to the flame
Of the sun, who is resting his chin on a far-away fence
In the western division of sky. If these shovel-worn hands
Are a signal of duty well done; if the grit on my brow
Is a proof of my vigorous service on hearing commands,
I may square my obedient shoulders, relaxing the vow,
And may drop, as a cone, in the bracken, and wonder my fill
In the dominant huddle of pines on the crest of the hill.
7
While the years, with their sane intermingling of acid and sweet,
Are at work on my soul, as my hands daily work on the vines
In the vineyard controlled by the pulses that steadfastly beat
For the sake of the juice in the clusters, the pith of the pines,
It were strange if the spirit they model should be as a flint
On the patch of a road, never seeking to question the Source,
Never flaming and aching—yes, dying!—to capture a hint
Of the Fountain of agony, ecstasy, gentleness, force;
The Designer of studious suns, the Conceiver of space,
And the Lender of Christ to the world as the blossom of grace.
Are at work on my soul, as my hands daily work on the vines
In the vineyard controlled by the pulses that steadfastly beat
For the sake of the juice in the clusters, the pith of the pines,
It were strange if the spirit they model should be as a flint
On the patch of a road, never seeking to question the Source,
Never flaming and aching—yes, dying!—to capture a hint
Of the Fountain of agony, ecstasy, gentleness, force;
The Designer of studious suns, the Conceiver of space,
And the Lender of Christ to the world as the blossom of grace.
I refuse to accept any legend of Godhead as clothed
With a flame for concealing the Author and Giver of light.
I believe that the beautiful Earth and the Heaven are betrothed,
As conveyed by the Prophets God sent to establish the right
And announce His regard. It is true. I am working His will
If I look for His face (as I shall) when a cloud rushes clear
Of the pines that belong to His cloistered abode on the hill,
Or the cheep of a motherless nightingale hurries Him near.
If the best that my heart can desire is forbidden to me,
May the loss of the Vision help friends in the Vineyard to see!
With a flame for concealing the Author and Giver of light.
I believe that the beautiful Earth and the Heaven are betrothed,
As conveyed by the Prophets God sent to establish the right
And announce His regard. It is true. I am working His will
8
Of the pines that belong to His cloistered abode on the hill,
Or the cheep of a motherless nightingale hurries Him near.
If the best that my heart can desire is forbidden to me,
May the loss of the Vision help friends in the Vineyard to see!
It is true. He is certainly here. At each bend of surprise
In the lane, He is there, as expectant, my brother, as thou,
With a look of redeeming benignance alert in His eyes,
And the warmth of compassionate love overspreading His brow.
As expectant as I, whose infirm and irregular mind
Is but blackness, compared with the fire of the hallowing beam
That was given for a lamp on the Cross, He is waiting to find
If I know, even yet, how His price is the Deed, not the Dream;
For the gift of His face to the children belongs to His plan,
And the only obscurer of God is the darkness of Man.
In the lane, He is there, as expectant, my brother, as thou,
With a look of redeeming benignance alert in His eyes,
And the warmth of compassionate love overspreading His brow.
As expectant as I, whose infirm and irregular mind
Is but blackness, compared with the fire of the hallowing beam
That was given for a lamp on the Cross, He is waiting to find
If I know, even yet, how His price is the Deed, not the Dream;
For the gift of His face to the children belongs to His plan,
And the only obscurer of God is the darkness of Man.
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