 | The bird and the bell, with other poems |  |
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I IN THEE, AND THOU IN ME.
I am but clay in thy hands, but Thou art the all-loving artist.
Passive I lie in thy sight, yet in my selfhood I strive
So to embody the life and the love thou ever impartest,
That in my sphere of the finite I may be truly alive.
Passive I lie in thy sight, yet in my selfhood I strive
So to embody the life and the love thou ever impartest,
That in my sphere of the finite I may be truly alive.
Knowing thou needest this form, as I thy divine inspiration,
Knowing thou shapest the clay with a vision and purpose divine,
So would I answer each touch of thy hand in its loving creation,
That in my conscious life thy power and beauty may shine,
Knowing thou shapest the clay with a vision and purpose divine,
So would I answer each touch of thy hand in its loving creation,
That in my conscious life thy power and beauty may shine,
Reflecting the noble intent thou hast in forming thy creatures;
Waking from sense into life of the soul, and the image of thee;
Working with thee in thy work to model humanity's features
Into the likeness of God, myself from myself I would free.
Waking from sense into life of the soul, and the image of thee;
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Into the likeness of God, myself from myself I would free.
One with all human existence, no one above or below me;
Lit by thy wisdom and love, as roses are steeped in the morn;
Growing from clay to a statue, from statue to flesh, till thou know me
Wrought into manhood celestial, and in thine image re-born.
Lit by thy wisdom and love, as roses are steeped in the morn;
Growing from clay to a statue, from statue to flesh, till thou know me
Wrought into manhood celestial, and in thine image re-born.
So in thy love will I trust, bringing me sooner or later
Past the dark screen that divides these shows of the finite from thee.
Thine, thine only, this warm dear life, O loving Creator!
Thine the invisible future, born of the present, must be.
Past the dark screen that divides these shows of the finite from thee.
Thine, thine only, this warm dear life, O loving Creator!
Thine the invisible future, born of the present, must be.
| The bird and the bell, with other poems | |