A Churchyard Song of Patient Hope

All tears done away with the bitter unquiet sea, Death done away from among the living at last, Man shall say of sorrow—Love grant it to thee and me!— At last, “It is past.”

Shall I say of pain, “It is past,” nor say it with thee, Thou heart of my heart, thou soul of my soul, my Friend? Shalt thou say of pain, “It is past,” nor say it with me Beloved to the end?

One woe is past. Come what come will Thus much is ended and made fast: Two woes may overhang us still; One woe is past.

As flowers when winter puffs its last Wake in the vale, trail up the hill, Nor wait for skies to overcast;

So meek souls rally from the chill Of pain and fear and poisonous blast, To lift their heads: come good, come ill, One woe is past.

“Take no thought for the morrow.”

Who knows? God knows: and what He knows Is well and best. The darkness hideth not from Him, but glows Clear as the morning or the evening rose Of east or west.

Wherefore man’s strength is to sit still: Not wasting care To antedate to-morrow’s good or ill; Yet watching meekly, watching with good will, Watching to prayer.

Some rising or some setting ray From east or west, If not to-day, why then another day Will light each dove upon the homeward way Safe to her nest.

“Consider the Lillies of the field.”

Solomon most glorious in array Put not on his glories without care:— Clothe us as Thy lilies of a day, As the lilies Thou accountest fair, Lilies of Thy making, Of Thy love partaking, Filling with free fragrance earth and air: Thou Who gatherest lilies, gather us and wear.

“Son, remember.”

I laid beside thy gate, am Lazarus; See me or see me not I still am there, Hungry and thirsty, sore and sick and bare, Dog-comforted and crumbs-solicitous: While thou in all thy ways art sumptuous, Daintily clothed, with dainties for thy fare: Thus a world’s wonder thou art quit of care, And be I seen or not seen I am thus. One day a worm for thee, a worm for me: With my worm angel songs and trumpet burst And plenitude an end of all desire: But what for thee, alas! but what for thee? Fire and an unextinguishable thirst, Thirst in an unextinguishable fire.

“Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

No thing is great on this side of the grave, Nor any thing of any stable worth: Whatso is born from earth returns to earth: No thing we grasp proves half the thing we crave: The tidal wave shrinks to the ebbing wave: Laughter is folly, madness lurks in mirth: Mankind sets off a-dying from the birth: Life is a losing game, with what to save? Thus I sat mourning like a mournful owl, And like a doleful dragon made ado, Companion of all monsters of the dark: When lo! the light cast off its nightly cowl, And up to heaven flashed a carolling lark, And all creation sang its hymn anew. While all creation sang its hymn anew What could I do but sing a stave in tune? Spectral on high hung pale the vanishing moon Where a last gleam of stars hung paling too. Lark’s lay—a cockcrow—with a scattered few Soft early chirpings—with a tender croon Of doves—a hundred thousand calls, and soon A hundred thousand answers sweet and true. These set me singing too at unawares: One note for all delights and charities, One note for hope reviving with the light, One note for every lovely thing that is; Till while I sang my heart shook off its cares And revelled in the land of no more night.

“The Will of the Lord be done.”

O Lord, fulfil Thy Will Be the days few or many, good or ill: Prolong them, to suffice For offering up ourselves Thy sacrifice; Shorten them if Thou wilt, To make in righteousness an end of guilt. Yea, they will not be long To souls who learn to sing a patient song; Yea, short they will not be To souls on tiptoe to flee home to Thee. O Lord, fulfil Thy Will: Make Thy Will ours, and keep us patient still Be the days few or many, good or ill.

“Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.”

Treasure plies a feather, Pleasure spreadeth wings, Taking flight together,— Ah! my cherished things.

Fly away, poor pleasure, That art so brief a thing: Fly away, poor treasure, That hast so swift a wing.

Pleasure, to be pleasure, Must come without a wing: Treasure, to be treasure, Must be a stable thing.

Treasure without feather, Pleasure without wings, Elsewhere dwell together And are heavenly things.

“Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.”

“One sorrow more? I thought the tale complete.”— He bore amiss who grudges what he bore: Stretch out thy hands and urge thy feet to meet One sorrow more.

Yea, make thy count for two or three or four: The kind Physician will not slack to treat His patient while there’s rankling in the sore.

Bear up in anguish, ease will yet be sweet; Bear up all day, for night has rest in store: Christ bears thy burden with thee, rise and greet One sorrow more.

“Then shall ye shout.”

It seems an easy thing Mayhap one day to sing; Yet the next day We cannot sing or say.

Keep silence with good heart, While silence fits our part: Another day We shall both sing and say.

Keep silence, counting time To strike in at the chime: Prepare to sound.— Our part is coming round.

Can we not sing or say? In silence let us pray, And meditate Our love-song while we wait.

Everything that is born must die; Everything that can sigh may sing; Rocks in equal balance, low or high, Everything.

Honeycomb is weighed against a sting; Hope and fear take turns to touch the sky; Height and depth respond alternating.

O my soul, spread wings of love to fly, Wings of dove that soars on home-bound win; Love trusts Love, till Love shall justify Everything.

Lord, grant us calm, if calm can set forth Thee; Or tempest, if a tempest set Thee forth; Wind from the east or west or south or north, Or congelation of a silent sea, With stillness of each tremulous aspen tree.

Still let fruit fall, or hang upon the tree; Still let the east and west, the south and north, Curb in their winds, or plough a thundering sea; Still let the earth abide to set Thee forth, Or vanish like a smoke to set forth Thee.