The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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November 16
A THOUGHT |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
364
November 16 A THOUGHT
“Behold, how he loved.”—St. John xi. 36.
There is a thought that cannot sleep
When flesh in slumber lies,
Borne upward from the awful deep
Of old eternities;
And in my dreams and without will
It is the Master's Presence still,
Above all chivalries;
The compass of its cosmic sweep
Scatters the cloud, that dares
Uplift a thunder throb of ill;
Within the heart of cares,
It hideth unawares.
When flesh in slumber lies,
Borne upward from the awful deep
Of old eternities;
And in my dreams and without will
It is the Master's Presence still,
Above all chivalries;
The compass of its cosmic sweep
Scatters the cloud, that dares
Uplift a thunder throb of ill;
Within the heart of cares,
It hideth unawares.
It is the Thought of Love Divine
Which filleth far the lands,
And doth in mercy still entwine
Our world with holy hands;
The laughter of the summer sea,
The burden of the storm wind's plea
Express its dear demands;
And all the beauties that refine
The robe of Nature's rest,
Red passion of the poppied lea,
White dove upon her nest,
Are by it manifest.
Which filleth far the lands,
And doth in mercy still entwine
Our world with holy hands;
The laughter of the summer sea,
The burden of the storm wind's plea
Express its dear demands;
And all the beauties that refine
The robe of Nature's rest,
Red passion of the poppied lea,
White dove upon her nest,
Are by it manifest.
The Prisoner of Love | ||