 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
WORK IN HEAVEN.
Surely there must be work to do in heaven,
Since work is the best thing on earth we know:
Life were but tasteless bread without this leaven,
A draught from some dead river's overflow.
Since work is the best thing on earth we know:
Life were but tasteless bread without this leaven,
A draught from some dead river's overflow.
What is it we look forward to with longing,
In the hereafter? Couches, banquets, rest?
All our old pleasures round about us thronging?
A soft seat for ourselves, among the blest?
In the hereafter? Couches, banquets, rest?
All our old pleasures round about us thronging?
A soft seat for ourselves, among the blest?
Would these content us now? How then forever?
By seraph and by saint God's will is done:
There is no heaven, save in the soul's endeavor
To do His will, while endless ages run.
By seraph and by saint God's will is done:
There is no heaven, save in the soul's endeavor
To do His will, while endless ages run.
Work may be drudgery; it is so only
When we leave God out of the task He gives,
Or choose our own, apart from Him,—a lonely
Treadmill of selfishness, where no joy lives.
When we leave God out of the task He gives,
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Treadmill of selfishness, where no joy lives.
Days we recall of dreariest melancholy,
When we sat idle, folding listless hands;
But Duty roused us from that trance of folly,
And Life dawned on us in Love's dear commands.
When we sat idle, folding listless hands;
But Duty roused us from that trance of folly,
And Life dawned on us in Love's dear commands.
There must be work for us to do in heaven,
Else that were a less blessèd place than this:
The worthiest impulse to our earth-life given
Must still be felt, amid celestial bliss.
Else that were a less blessèd place than this:
The worthiest impulse to our earth-life given
Must still be felt, amid celestial bliss.
Great voices call to labor. “Lo, my Father
Works, and I work with Him,” the Master said:
Are we His servants, then, if we would rather
In easier pathways than He chose, be led?
Works, and I work with Him,” the Master said:
Are we His servants, then, if we would rather
In easier pathways than He chose, be led?
“Yet heaven is love.” Ay, but in heavenly places
Love will mean something more than sitting still
And looking into one another's faces,
To say, “I love you,” as earth's fond ones will.
Love will mean something more than sitting still
And looking into one another's faces,
To say, “I love you,” as earth's fond ones will.
Even here, love wearies of its low expression;
It longs to strike some nobler anthem-chord;
The heart is deadened, finds but retrogression,
In iteration of the sweetest word.
It longs to strike some nobler anthem-chord;
The heart is deadened, finds but retrogression,
In iteration of the sweetest word.
None asks there, “Am I loved?” His heart's outpouring
Falls back like dew from all the heavens on him
Who, laden with God's gifts, moves on adoring,
Mate of archangels and of seraphim.
Falls back like dew from all the heavens on him
Who, laden with God's gifts, moves on adoring,
Mate of archangels and of seraphim.
Work is the holiest thing in earth or heaven:
To lift from souls the sorrow and the curse,—
This dear employment must to us be given,
While there is want in God's great universe.
To lift from souls the sorrow and the curse,—
This dear employment must to us be given,
While there is want in God's great universe.
And might there come at last a termination
Of ills that now bewilder and oppress,
Doubtless there would arise some new creation
To meet the hunger of our hearts to bless.
Of ills that now bewilder and oppress,
Doubtless there would arise some new creation
To meet the hunger of our hearts to bless.
No blot of sin might sully those fresh pages;
Yet should we feel our souls fledge unguessed powers,
Learning, through flight on flight of timeless ages,
To love God's last-born worlds as He loved ours.
Yet should we feel our souls fledge unguessed powers,
Learning, through flight on flight of timeless ages,
To love God's last-born worlds as He loved ours.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |