Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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MAN THE MAKER. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
MAN THE MAKER.
Dear God, Thy cheeks are very thin,
And feebly dost Thou go
Through the creations out and in,
Because my prayers are slow;
And none but such as these disperse
The darkness of the universe,
Through which we dimly know.
My praises oft, which built Thee fat
And full with leaping life,
By doubts that on me sorely sat,
When I would fondly aim thereat
Were quenched by evil strife.
And feebly dost Thou go
Through the creations out and in,
Because my prayers are slow;
And none but such as these disperse
The darkness of the universe,
Through which we dimly know.
My praises oft, which built Thee fat
And full with leaping life,
By doubts that on me sorely sat,
When I would fondly aim thereat
Were quenched by evil strife.
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O, it is true Thy mercy made
My poverty, and wrought
Its grandeur on a thing of shade
By every passion bought;
But still the tiniest wavelet, pent
Within its mother continent,
Imprints its little thought.
But Thou art moulded by my hand
And with my worship shaped,
As winds and waters form the land
Which, though they never may command,
By them is carved and draped.
My poverty, and wrought
Its grandeur on a thing of shade
By every passion bought;
But still the tiniest wavelet, pent
Within its mother continent,
Imprints its little thought.
But Thou art moulded by my hand
And with my worship shaped,
As winds and waters form the land
Which, though they never may command,
By them is carved and draped.
Thou feedest on my faith and love
While famine comes from fears,
And all Thy gardens up above
Are watered by my tears;
If I forget Thee, Thou dost pine
Out of the majesty Divine,
And tremble at the years.
Devotion is the life that thrills
The Glory that Thou art,
And like a thousand thousand rills
With more than bliss and beauty fills
The heaven of Thy great Heart.
While famine comes from fears,
And all Thy gardens up above
Are watered by my tears;
If I forget Thee, Thou dost pine
Out of the majesty Divine,
And tremble at the years.
Devotion is the life that thrills
The Glory that Thou art,
And like a thousand thousand rills
With more than bliss and beauty fills
The heaven of Thy great Heart.
And so I nourish Thee at morn
With prayers as precious sops,
And pledge to Thee in sadness born
My troth in tender drops;
At noontide and at eve I raise
My services of solemn praise,
A fount that never stops.
And in the night I often turn
My waking hopes to Thee,
With wingéd thoughts that speed and spurn
The lower air and words that burn,
That Thou may'st warmer be.
With prayers as precious sops,
And pledge to Thee in sadness born
My troth in tender drops;
At noontide and at eve I raise
My services of solemn praise,
A fount that never stops.
And in the night I often turn
My waking hopes to Thee,
With wingéd thoughts that speed and spurn
The lower air and words that burn,
That Thou may'st warmer be.
I clothe Thee richly with the dress
Of reverent awe and care,
And in that robe of righteousness
I have a humble share;
For it is woven of my true
Confessions as with threads of blue,
And creeds that greatly dare.
My witness is Thy sure defence
Which bids Thee grander grow,
Thy shoes are of my confidence,
My martyrdoms and penitence
Red in Thy halo glow.
Of reverent awe and care,
And in that robe of righteousness
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For it is woven of my true
Confessions as with threads of blue,
And creeds that greatly dare.
My witness is Thy sure defence
Which bids Thee grander grow,
Thy shoes are of my confidence,
My martyrdoms and penitence
Red in Thy halo glow.
Thus, though I am but common clay
And mingled with the dust,
My fingers on Thee have their way
To model with their trust;
And my creation Thou art much
Responding to each tone and touch,
As unto Thee I must.
Thou waxest with my worship strong
And in this frailty small,
My zeal doth make Thy bosom song
And lighten duties that were long—
I fashion Thee in all.
And mingled with the dust,
My fingers on Thee have their way
To model with their trust;
And my creation Thou art much
Responding to each tone and touch,
As unto Thee I must.
Thou waxest with my worship strong
And in this frailty small,
My zeal doth make Thy bosom song
And lighten duties that were long—
I fashion Thee in all.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |