 | From Sunset Ridge |  |
iv
THE WORD
Had I one of thy words, my Master,
With a spirit and tone of thine,
I would run to the farthest Indies
To scatter the joy divine.
With a spirit and tone of thine,
I would run to the farthest Indies
To scatter the joy divine.
I would waken the frozen ocean
With a billowy burst of joy:
Stir the ships at their grim ice-moorings
The summer passes by.
With a billowy burst of joy:
Stir the ships at their grim ice-moorings
The summer passes by.
I would enter court and hovel,
Forgetful of mien or dress,
With a treasure that all should ask for,
An errand that all should bless.
Forgetful of mien or dress,
With a treasure that all should ask for,
An errand that all should bless.
I seek for thy words, my Master,
With a spelling vexed and slow:
With scanty illuminations
In an alphabet of woe.
With a spelling vexed and slow:
With scanty illuminations
In an alphabet of woe.
But while I am searching, scanning
A lesson none ask to hear,
My life writeth out thy sentence
Divinely just and dear.
A lesson none ask to hear,
My life writeth out thy sentence
Divinely just and dear.
| From Sunset Ridge | |