A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul Part 2

Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns, Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns, If thou, the Truth, do not make them the true: Thou art my life, O Christ, and nothing else will do.

5.

Thou art here--in heaven, I know, but not from here-- Although thy separate self do not appear; If I could part the light from out the day, There I should have thee! But thou art too near: How find thee walking, when thou art the way?

Oh, present Christ! make my eyes keen as stings, To see thee at their heart, the glory even of things.

6.

That thou art nowhere to be found, agree Wise men, whose eyes are but for surfaces; Men with eyes opened by the second birth, To whom the seen, husk of the unseen is, Descry thee soul of everything on earth.

Who know thy ends, thy means and motions see: Eyes made for glory soon discover thee.

7.

Thou near then, I draw nearer--to thy feet, And sitting in thy shadow, look out on the s.h.i.+ne; Ready at thy first word to leave my seat-- Not thee: thou goest too. From every clod Into thy footprint flows the indwelling wine; And in my daily bread, keen-eyed I greet Its being's heart, the very body of G.o.d.

8.

Thou wilt interpret life to me, and men, Art, nature, yea, my own soul's mysteries-- Bringing, truth out, clear-joyous, to my ken, Fair as the morn trampling the dull night. Then The lone hill-side shall hear exultant cries; The joyous see me joy, the weeping weep; The watching smile, as Death breathes on me his cold sleep.

9.

I search my heart--I search, and find no faith.

Hidden He may be in its many folds-- I see him not revealed in all the world Duty's firm shape thins to a misty wraith.

No good seems likely. To and fro I am hurled.

I have no stay. Only obedience holds:-- I haste, I rise, I do the thing he saith.

10.

Thou wouldst not have thy man crushed back to clay; It must be, G.o.d, thou hast a strength to give To him that fain would do what thou dost say; Else how shall any soul repentant live, Old griefs and new fears hurrying on dismay?

Let pain be what thou wilt, kind and degree, Only in pain calm thou my heart with thee.

11.

I will not s.h.i.+ft my ground like Moab's king, But from this spot whereon I stand, I pray-- From this same barren rock to thee I say, "Lord, in my commonness, in this very thing That haunts my soul with folly--through the clay Of this my pitcher, see the lamp's dim flake; And hear the blow that would the pitcher break."

12.

Be thou the well by which I lie and rest; Be thou my tree of life, my garden ground; Be thou my home, my fire, my chamber blest, My book of wisdom, loved of all the best; Oh, be my friend, each day still newer found, As the eternal days and nights go round!

Nay, nay--thou art my G.o.d, in whom all loves are bound!

13.

Two things at once, thou know'st I cannot think.

When busy with the work thou givest me, I cannot consciously think then of thee.

Then why, when next thou lookest o'er the brink Of my horizon, should my spirit shrink, Reproached and fearful, nor to greet thee run?

Can I be two when I am only one.

14.

My soul must unawares have sunk awry.

Some care, poor eagerness, ambition of work, Some old offence that unforgiving did lurk, Or some self-gratulation, soft and sly-- Something not thy sweet will, not the good part, While the home-guard looked out, stirred up the old murk, And so I gloomed away from thee, my Heart.

15.

Therefore I make provision, ere I begin To do the thing thou givest me to do, Praying,--Lord, wake me oftener, lest I sin.

Amidst my work, open thine eyes on me, That I may wake and laugh, and know and see Then with healed heart afresh catch up the clue, And singing drop into my work anew.

16.

If I should slow diverge, and listless stray Into some thought, feeling, or dream unright, O Watcher, my backsliding soul affray; Let me not perish of the ghastly blight.

Be thou, O Life eternal, in me light; Then merest approach of selfish or impure Shall start me up alive, awake, secure.

17.

Lord, I have fallen again--a human clod!

Selfish I was, and heedless to offend; Stood on my rights. Thy own child would not send Away his shreds of nothing for the whole G.o.d!

Wretched, to thee who savest, low I bend: Give me the power to let my rag-rights go In the great wind that from thy gulf doth blow.

18.

Keep me from wrath, let it seem ever so right: My wrath will never work thy righteousness.

Up, up the hill, to the whiter than snow-s.h.i.+ne, Help me to climb, and dwell in pardon's light.

I must be pure as thou, or ever less Than thy design of me--therefore incline My heart to take men's wrongs as thou tak'st mine.

19.

Lord, in thy spirit's hurricane, I pray, Strip my soul naked--dress it then thy way.

Change for me all my rags to cloth of gold.

Who would not poverty for riches yield?

A hovel sell to buy a treasure-field?

Who would a mess of porridge careful hold Against the universe's birthright old?

20.

Help me to yield my will, in labour even, Nor toil on toil, greedy of doing, heap-- Fretting I cannot more than me is given; That with the finest clay my wheel runs slow, Nor lets the lovely thing the shapely grow; That memory what thought gives it cannot keep, And nightly rimes ere morn like cistus-petals go.

21.

'Tis--shall thy will be done for me?--or mine, And I be made a thing not after thine-- My own, and dear in paltriest details?

Shall I be born of G.o.d, or of mere man?

Be made like Christ, or on some other plan?-- I let all run:--set thou and trim my sails; Home then my course, let blow whatever gales.

22.

With thee on board, each sailor is a king Nor I mere captain of my vessel then, But heir of earth and heaven, eternal child; Daring all truth, nor fearing anything; Mighty in love, the servant of all men; Resenting nothing, taking rage and blare Into the G.o.dlike silence of a loving care.

23.

I cannot see, my G.o.d, a reason why From morn to night I go not gladsome free; For, if thou art what my soul thinketh thee, There is no burden but should lightly lie, No duty but a joy at heart must be: Love's perfect will can be nor sore nor small, For G.o.d is light--in him no darkness is at all.