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168
THE TOMB AND THE TEMPLE.
Sleeping! my heart was sleeping
With the sleep of one turned to stone,—
With my changeless burden of sorrow,
Alone, for ever alone;
On the grave no larger than others,
For other eyes to see,
Which has made all earth and heaven
One vaulted grave to me.
With the sleep of one turned to stone,—
With my changeless burden of sorrow,
Alone, for ever alone;
On the grave no larger than others,
For other eyes to see,
Which has made all earth and heaven
One vaulted grave to me.
Sleeping! my heart was sleeping
On the stone of that sacred tomb
Which needs no seal to seal it
Close till the Day of Doom,—
On the stone no friendly angel,
No earthquake shall roll away,
Till the friendly hands shall move it
For me, on my resting-day.
On the stone of that sacred tomb
Which needs no seal to seal it
Close till the Day of Doom,—
On the stone no friendly angel,
No earthquake shall roll away,
Till the friendly hands shall move it
For me, on my resting-day.
169
Waking! my heart is waking,
And nevermore alone!
Awake, in a vast Cathedral,
But not one built of stone.
Deep are its strong foundations;—
They have pierced through the bars of death
By the force of a Life Immortal
Inspired by a dying breath.
And nevermore alone!
Awake, in a vast Cathedral,
But not one built of stone.
Deep are its strong foundations;—
They have pierced through the bars of death
By the force of a Life Immortal
Inspired by a dying breath.
The worlds have no measure to mete it,
Its span is too high and broad;
None know how high it towereth,
For within is the Throne of God.
Each stone and each note of its music
Are the spoils of a mortal strife;
Its every song is a Triumph,
Its every stone a life.
Its span is too high and broad;
None know how high it towereth,
For within is the Throne of God.
Each stone and each note of its music
Are the spoils of a mortal strife;
Its every song is a Triumph,
Its every stone a life.
Its feeblest song is a Triumph,
Though it seem to men but a moan;
For it presseth through anguish victorious
To God, to God alone;—
Till low at His feet it sobbeth,
“Father! Thy will be done!”
And He asketh no higher music
From the angels around His Throne.
Though it seem to men but a moan;
For it presseth through anguish victorious
To God, to God alone;—
Till low at His feet it sobbeth,
“Father! Thy will be done!”
And He asketh no higher music
From the angels around His Throne.
170
The hymns through its vast roofs pealing
Are from more than a single Choir;
And though diverse the tones of its music,
They are fused in one inward fire.
The singers are all immortal,
One life inspires them through;
But some have their dying over,
And some have it yet to do.
Are from more than a single Choir;
And though diverse the tones of its music,
They are fused in one inward fire.
The singers are all immortal,
One life inspires them through;
But some have their dying over,
And some have it yet to do.
The choirs on these lower ranges
Are broken and weak and few,
To the glorious hosts above us,
Just hidden from our view.
For daily our best rise thither;
Soon He will call us too,
Even us, when He sees we are ready,
To Himself, belov'd, and to you!
Are broken and weak and few,
To the glorious hosts above us,
Just hidden from our view.
For daily our best rise thither;
Soon He will call us too,
Even us, when He sees we are ready,
To Himself, belov'd, and to you!
Soon, not too soon by a moment,
Till our work is done below,—
Till the lessons are learnt more truly
We are careless to learn, and slow,—
Till the likeness is formed that only
Through frosts and fires can grow;
Soon, not too late by a moment,
For He knows how we long to go.
Till our work is done below,—
Till the lessons are learnt more truly
We are careless to learn, and slow,—
Till the likeness is formed that only
Through frosts and fires can grow;
Soon, not too late by a moment,
For He knows how we long to go.
171
We need not depart from this Temple,
We may serve there, night and day,
Its life and its music around us
In all our work and way.
For grand as it is and holy,
Eternal and Divine,
It is simple, homelike, human,
As a home of thine and mine.
We may serve there, night and day,
Its life and its music around us
In all our work and way.
For grand as it is and holy,
Eternal and Divine,
It is simple, homelike, human,
As a home of thine and mine.
Its music is all home-music,
It haunts us where'er we roam;
For the Father's House is the Temple,
And the Temple the children's Home.
It haunts us where'er we roam;
For the Father's House is the Temple,
And the Temple the children's Home.
Westminster, 1869.
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