Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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THE PILGRIM. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE PILGRIM.
I walk in the strength of weakness
That clings to the Holy Rood,
In the pride of the Master meekness
Of the gentle Brotherhood;
Who the awful sign have carried
And the lamp of living oil,
And with blood and fire were married
To the consecrated toil;
Who have bowed with others' burden
And been scourged with others' rod,
But asked for no fairer guerdon
Than to suffer alone with God.
That clings to the Holy Rood,
In the pride of the Master meekness
Of the gentle Brotherhood;
Who the awful sign have carried
And the lamp of living oil,
And with blood and fire were married
To the consecrated toil;
Who have bowed with others' burden
And been scourged with others' rod,
But asked for no fairer guerdon
Than to suffer alone with God.
I walk in the dark by vision
From the Light that cannot lie,
With the sword of the one decision
That has cut each earthly tie;
For the saints are my sweet assessors
As I go on my pilgrim path,
In the faith of the old confessors
Who have trodden the road of wrath;
And the flint, where my footstep lingers,
Makes me feel with velvet shod,
And the thorns are but friendly fingers
That beckon me home to God.
From the Light that cannot lie,
With the sword of the one decision
That has cut each earthly tie;
For the saints are my sweet assessors
As I go on my pilgrim path,
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Who have trodden the road of wrath;
And the flint, where my footstep lingers,
Makes me feel with velvet shod,
And the thorns are but friendly fingers
That beckon me home to God.
I walk in the might of martyrs
Who are near when I travail most,
In the name of the churches' charters
That are more than an armèd host;
And I rest, when my heart is weary,
On the Rock of no mortal plan,
And I count no service dreary
That is done for a brother man.
And the flame is a blessèd beacon,
As the Cross on the graveyard sod,
If a fear for a moment weaken
My hold on the Human God.
Who are near when I travail most,
In the name of the churches' charters
That are more than an armèd host;
And I rest, when my heart is weary,
On the Rock of no mortal plan,
And I count no service dreary
That is done for a brother man.
And the flame is a blessèd beacon,
As the Cross on the graveyard sod,
If a fear for a moment weaken
My hold on the Human God.
I walk under skies of waving
Palms, though the tempest frowns
And the blasts of hell are raving,
But I only see the crowns;
And the Holy One I follow
I mark in the beggar's rags,
Though His hand weighs in its hollow
The worlds and the iron crags;
Not a thought may now be craven,
If the mountains quake and nod,
And I cannot miss my haven,
For the Way itself is God.
Palms, though the tempest frowns
And the blasts of hell are raving,
But I only see the crowns;
And the Holy One I follow
I mark in the beggar's rags,
Though His hand weighs in its hollow
The worlds and the iron crags;
Not a thought may now be craven,
If the mountains quake and nod,
And I cannot miss my haven,
For the Way itself is God.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |