 | Gathered in the gloaming |  |
21
“There shall be no more Sea.”
There shall be no more Sea!—Oh, Land of Heaven,How shall we front thy glories? We, that come
From such grey skies, that hear for evermore,
The beating of the wind and of the rain
On bitter moorlands—Merciful high God!
Can we be happy by Thy great white throne,
Amongst thy singing angels? Can we tune
Our tremulous, broken voices to those rapt,
Grand Allelujahs?—Father, shall we tread,
Joyful, the causeways of Thy city of gold,
Between the walls of jasper, where no wind
Ruffles the Sabbath calm, nor any moan
Of anguish enters in—we are so used
To anguish in this world that Thou hast made!
There shall be no more tears—Thy hand shall wipe
Tears from all eyes. We hear the word . . and weep.
There shall be no more Sea—Oh! Land of Heaven,
Through all thy shimmering palms—through all thy glow
And glory of Godhead, shall we not repine?
Shall we not strain our vision, from high peaks
And crystal gorges, yearning to behold
The desolate seas of home—yearning to hear
The great wave-voices thunder once again?
| Gathered in the gloaming | |