 | English Roses |  |
GOD'S BROOMS
Out in tempest-land dear God is sweeping, sweeping,
With His brooms among the glows and glooms
Wrangling, while aloft the clouds are weeping, weeping,
For the withered grass and buried blooms.
Hark, He brushes with the wind and rushes
Dirt away and poisons of decay,
Probing hidden corners and forbidden
Nooks with strokes that cannot go astray!
Yes, while we in comfort safe are sleeping, sleeping,
His behest is that of wise unrest,
And His thousand brooms are sweeping, sweeping
Off the ills whereby we fall opprest.
With His brooms among the glows and glooms
Wrangling, while aloft the clouds are weeping, weeping,
For the withered grass and buried blooms.
Hark, He brushes with the wind and rushes
Dirt away and poisons of decay,
Probing hidden corners and forbidden
Nooks with strokes that cannot go astray!
Yes, while we in comfort safe are sleeping, sleeping,
His behest is that of wise unrest,
And His thousand brooms are sweeping, sweeping
Off the ills whereby we fall opprest.
Mark, how beautiful great God is sweeping, sweeping
Cobwebs all from spaces great and small,
And the meshes dire which would be creeping, creeping
Round the cottage and the castle hall!
Sentinelling us who keep rebelling,
Though we stand as stewards on His land,
At the scourges with which Kindness purges
Seeds of sickness with a mighty hand;
O while we in leisure still are keeping, keeping
Every way but work at idle play,
There those tireless besoms labour, sweeping, sweeping
Health and order out of disarray.
Cobwebs all from spaces great and small,
And the meshes dire which would be creeping, creeping
Round the cottage and the castle hall!
Sentinelling us who keep rebelling,
Though we stand as stewards on His land,
At the scourges with which Kindness purges
Seeds of sickness with a mighty hand;
O while we in leisure still are keeping, keeping
Every way but work at idle play,
There those tireless besoms labour, sweeping, sweeping
Health and order out of disarray.
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Not a spark escapes at length the sweeping, sweeping,
Of the brooms which scatter far the dooms
And disguised corruptions with their steeping, steeping
Taint through all the Father's earthly rooms.
Land and water and the dimmest quarter
Feel them shake their bosoms and awake
To a better sign than sorrow's fetter,
Welcoming the wounds that do remake.
Ah, though little birds in fright are cheeping, cheeping,
Cuddled warm each round and fluffy form,
Still the God who is the Dove is sweeping, sweeping
Death and danger off with busy storm.
Of the brooms which scatter far the dooms
And disguised corruptions with their steeping, steeping
Taint through all the Father's earthly rooms.
Land and water and the dimmest quarter
Feel them shake their bosoms and awake
To a better sign than sorrow's fetter,
Welcoming the wounds that do remake.
Ah, though little birds in fright are cheeping, cheeping,
Cuddled warm each round and fluffy form,
Still the God who is the Dove is sweeping, sweeping
Death and danger off with busy storm.
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