Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Out of His fulness, God was good,
He gave the hungry lands
Their purple hill and waving wood,
The rivers' sapphire bands,
The mighty dew which doth renew
Our earth with gentle hands,
And golden grace of womanhood—
But still they made demands.
He stript Himself of garments fair
And tore His Heart asunder,
To paint the blue upon the air
And the green carpet under;
He hung his halo in the hair

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Of virgins mounting the white stair,
Through death, to thrones of thunder.
He watered with His richest tears
The world and down the rolling years
Sent on that fruitful flood,
And washed away our cruel fears
In His own saving Blood.
But yet in the exceeding store
Of love and long dark lashes
Which kindled hearts of ashes,
The greedy nations craved for more.

But then He bared His mighty breast
And took the music out,
Which was the universe's rest
And fired the battle shout—
The voice we hear with inward ear,
In ministries of doubt;
And soft it lay on souls opprest,
It compassed earth about.
He gave at last His very life
Which sets the planet singing,
And makes the sacrificial knife
A balm of angels' bringing;
While in the lot with discord rife
And ruin and its wormy strife,
It came like roses clinging.
By cunning harp and prophet rune,
It put the weary lands in tune
And lorded over chance,
The winter turned to laughing June
And sorrow could but dance.
For in the bosom it was wine
Of sacramental chalice,
Which conquered care and malice,
And left the meanest drudge divine.

O joy beyond all words that are
Which is so wondrous strong,
It breaks the prison's iron bar

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And remedies each wrong;
It finds the gold beneath the mould
And spins the earth along,
Till we forget the scorn or scar—
God's liturgies of song!
The bruisèd maiden in the dust
Bent as a weeping willow,
The rover with red hand of lust
Whose bondsman is the billow,
The spirit eaten as with rust
All here revive their powers of trust,
And seek a soothing pillow.
It is a temple where we meet
And get repose for failing feet
Upon a common ground,
And prove the vilest fortune sweet
Within one sacred bound.
We drop the sadness and the sin
Wherein we rot and welter,
And see in this fair shelter
Both man and God are close akin.

And then at rare and solemn times
God sends His Tuners down,
To mend the mischief of the climes
When gathering troubles frown;
They bring new strains for bitter pains
That mock the kingliest crown,
Until the globe with gladder chimes
Puts on a wedding gown.
They go about through darkling Space
Fresh melody to scatter
In notes that mark the Master's pace,
And thrill the deadest matter;
For they have looked upon that Face
Giving them all their vital grace,
Which no one's praise can flatter.
And they have heard the Maker speak
The spell which they though dimly wreak
In mysteries of sound,

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To cheer the wandering and the weak
Who walk their lonely round.
And with their healing harmonies
They open every portal,
And pour into this mortal
The breath of the eternities.