Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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THE GREATNESS OF GOD. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
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THE GREATNESS OF GOD.
O God, Thou art so very wise
And wonderfully tall,
That unto Thee I cannot rise
Who am exceeding small;
And darkling feet, that climb to greet
Thy greatness, only fall.
For I am a wee baby thing
And helpless to Thy goodness cling,
As to a mother's gown;
And lest I tumble from Thy lap
Or meet with woe or evil hap,
Thy Mercy keeps me down.
And wonderfully tall,
That unto Thee I cannot rise
Who am exceeding small;
And darkling feet, that climb to greet
Thy greatness, only fall.
For I am a wee baby thing
And helpless to Thy goodness cling,
As to a mother's gown;
And lest I tumble from Thy lap
Or meet with woe or evil hap,
Thy Mercy keeps me down.
Thy Sweetness, as a swaddling robe,
From trembling toe to chin—
While it doth compass the wide globe,
Despite the shame and sin—
Yet wraps me round, in peace enwound,
And tucks me warmly in.
But if at times I suffer pain
And dimly reach to Thee in vain
Or feel a ruder shock,
When threatening shadows on me shut
And Thou art hidden, it is but
The cradle that must rock.
From trembling toe to chin—
While it doth compass the wide globe,
Despite the shame and sin—
Yet wraps me round, in peace enwound,
And tucks me warmly in.
But if at times I suffer pain
And dimly reach to Thee in vain
Or feel a ruder shock,
When threatening shadows on me shut
And Thou art hidden, it is but
The cradle that must rock.
Beneath Thy Majesty I rest
As under some high tree,
And hear the beating of the Breast
Which yet I cannot see;
Each adverse air is just a stair
And lifteth up to Thee.
I know that nothing less than Love
Is all below me and above,
Though oft I wander blind;
And the broad marvel of Thy Power,
As soft as dew upon a flower,
Doth buttress me behind.
As under some high tree,
And hear the beating of the Breast
Which yet I cannot see;
Each adverse air is just a stair
And lifteth up to Thee.
I know that nothing less than Love
Is all below me and above,
Though oft I wander blind;
And the broad marvel of Thy Power,
As soft as dew upon a flower,
Doth buttress me behind.
280
Crushed with Thy Grandeur I would make
A footstool on Thy floor,
Or be a mat for Thy dear sake
Laid at the temple door;
And if the dust, before Thee thrust,
I never could be poor.
At night I sometimes may not sleep
From thinking of the dreadful deep
Of Thy surpassing Grace;
I cannot fly from Thee, Thy breath
Is my whole life and very death
The dawning of Thy face.
A footstool on Thy floor,
Or be a mat for Thy dear sake
Laid at the temple door;
And if the dust, before Thee thrust,
I never could be poor.
At night I sometimes may not sleep
From thinking of the dreadful deep
Of Thy surpassing Grace;
I cannot fly from Thee, Thy breath
Is my whole life and very death
The dawning of Thy face.
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