Yet it was well, and Thou hast said in season "As is the master shall the servant be": Let me not subtly slide into the treason, Seeking an honour which they gave not Thee; Never at even, pillowed on a pleasure, Sleep with the wings of aspiration furled, Hide the last mite of the forbidden treasure, Keep for my joys a world within the world;— Nay but much rather let me late returning Bruised of my brethren, wounded from within, Stoop with sad countenance and blushes burning, Bitter with weariness and sick with sin,— Then as I weary me and long and languish, Nowise availing from that pain to part,— Desperate tides of the whole great world's anguish Forced thro' the channels of a single heart,— Straight to thy presence get me and reveal it, Nothing ashamed of tears upon thy feet, Show the sore wound and beg thine hand to heal it, Pour thee the bitter, pray thee for the sweet. Then with a ripple and a radiance thro' me Rise and be manifest, o Morning Star! Flow on my soul, thou Spirit, and renew me, Fill with thyself, and let the rest be far. Safe to the hidden house of thine abiding Carry the weak knees and the heart that faints, Shield from the scorn and cover from the chiding, Give the world joy, but patience to the saints. |