 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
249
THE ARTIST IN CHURCH
Lord Christ, hast Thou no word for me,
Thou high and humble soul?
Thine ailing creatures turn to Thee
From their abiding misery,
And wonder, and are whole.
Thou high and humble soul?
Thine ailing creatures turn to Thee
From their abiding misery,
And wonder, and are whole.
Strong words Thou hast for knave and king,
For publican and priest,
For flowers that bloom, and birds that sing,
For every small or suffering thing,
Sad man and patient beast:
For publican and priest,
For flowers that bloom, and birds that sing,
For every small or suffering thing,
Sad man and patient beast:
For us with our awakened eyes,
With skilled and careful hands,
Who harvest from the sunset skies
A sense of gracious mysteries,
Thou hast no dear commands?
With skilled and careful hands,
Who harvest from the sunset skies
A sense of gracious mysteries,
Thou hast no dear commands?
Hath Thomas faith, hath Peter zeal,
Hath Paul his words of fire?
Not less imperiously I feel,
Not less insistently I kneel
Before my pure desire.
Hath Paul his words of fire?
Not less imperiously I feel,
Not less insistently I kneel
Before my pure desire.
250
Ay, I can preach Thee, I can trace,
With firm and strenuous line,
The awful splendours of the Face,
The shrouded effluence of the grace
Too urgently Divine.
With firm and strenuous line,
The awful splendours of the Face,
The shrouded effluence of the grace
Too urgently Divine.
Lo in our eyes the tear-drops start,
We swim in stormy seas:
Hast Thou within Thine ample heart,
No shelter for the sons of art,
No room for such as these?
We swim in stormy seas:
Hast Thou within Thine ample heart,
No shelter for the sons of art,
No room for such as these?
Or wert Thou silent of design,
Because Thy thought was cold?
Doth love of word, of hue, of line,
Sequester from Thy power divine,
Dissociate from Thy fold?
Because Thy thought was cold?
Doth love of word, of hue, of line,
Sequester from Thy power divine,
Dissociate from Thy fold?
O words of Power, O gracious deeds!
When Thou didst dwell with men,
Thou didst divine their deepest needs:
I marvel, and my spirit bleeds
That Thou wast silent then.
When Thou didst dwell with men,
Thou didst divine their deepest needs:
I marvel, and my spirit bleeds
That Thou wast silent then.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |