Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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BLIND HANDS. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
BLIND HANDS.
Dear God, in darkness
I uplift to Thee
Dim eyes that cannot see
Amid the horrors of this stony starkness,
Blind hands in bondage that would fain be free
To work their little lot—and yet may not.
What can I offer
Thee who grantest all that fills my coffer,
My slender purse,
And every winning save my own sad sinning,
Which ends a season for a new beginning
With its curse?
I uplift to Thee
Dim eyes that cannot see
Amid the horrors of this stony starkness,
Blind hands in bondage that would fain be free
To work their little lot—and yet may not.
What can I offer
Thee who grantest all that fills my coffer,
My slender purse,
And every winning save my own sad sinning,
Which ends a season for a new beginning
With its curse?
Thou art the Maker
And the Poet too,
Not I who vainly woo
Thy sea of Light which whelms me like a breaker
And does the task which I would feebly do,
Or washes from my toil the earthly soil.
Alas, my guesses
Fall but weakly, and Thy wisdom blesses
Whate'er is right
And honest aiming, if with error's maiming;
For how can I, a shadow, plead a claiming
Out of night?
And the Poet too,
Not I who vainly woo
Thy sea of Light which whelms me like a breaker
And does the task which I would feebly do,
Or washes from my toil the earthly soil.
Alas, my guesses
Fall but weakly, and Thy wisdom blesses
Whate'er is right
And honest aiming, if with error's maiming;
For how can I, a shadow, plead a claiming
Out of night?
My work is nothing
And my beauty Thine,
When Thou dost greatly shine
Upon me, and art thus my strength and clothing;
The good that I have wrought is but Divine,
The stains that still must be, belong to me.
The faith for living,
Is not even mine but Thy free giving;
And cometh love,
The bread of staying in the strife and playing
Without which every breath of man were slaying,
From above.
And my beauty Thine,
When Thou dost greatly shine
Upon me, and art thus my strength and clothing;
The good that I have wrought is but Divine,
The stains that still must be, belong to me.
The faith for living,
Is not even mine but Thy free giving;
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The bread of staying in the strife and playing
Without which every breath of man were slaying,
From above.
I am no Poem,
Father, at my best,
In borrowed glory drest,
But just a line or two of Thy grand Proem
To something higher and not now exprest;
I hear its tune afar, and often mar.
And each creation
Of my heart is all Thine inspiration,
Though poorly drawn;
And every gleaming jewel on the seaming
Of my spoiled garment, is Thy splendour beaming
To the dawn.
Father, at my best,
In borrowed glory drest,
But just a line or two of Thy grand Proem
To something higher and not now exprest;
I hear its tune afar, and often mar.
And each creation
Of my heart is all Thine inspiration,
Though poorly drawn;
And every gleaming jewel on the seaming
Of my spoiled garment, is Thy splendour beaming
To the dawn.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |