The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

I bore with thee long weary days and nights, Through many pangs of heart, through many tears; I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights, For three and thirty years.

Who else had dared for thee what I have dared? I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above; I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared: Give thou Me love for love.

For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth, For thee I trembled in the nightly frost: Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth: Why wilt thou still be lost?

I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced: Men only marked upon My shoulders borne The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced, Or wagged their heads in scorn.

Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes: I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame; I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.

A thief upon My right hand and My left; Six hours alone, athirst, in misery: At length in death one smote My heart and cleft A hiding-place for thee.

Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep: So did I win a kingdom,—share My crown; A harvest,—come and reap.

I will accept thy will to do and be, Thy hatred and intolerance of sin, Thy will at least to love, that burns within And thirsteth after Me: So will I render fruitful, blessing still The germs and small beginnings in thy heart, Because thy will cleaves to the better part.— Alas, I cannot will.

Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receive The inner unseen longings of the soul; I guide them turning towards Me; I control And charm hearts till they grieve: If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass, Though thou but wish indeed to choose My love; For I have power in earth and heaven above.— I cannot wish, alas!

What, neither choose nor wish to choose? and yet I still must strive to win thee and constrain: For thee I hung upon the cross in pain, How then can I forget? If thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate, Nor choose, nor wish,—resign thyself, be still Till I infuse love, hatred, longing, will.— I do not deprecate.

I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears; Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me!

My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk; Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall,—the sap of Spring; O Jesus, rise in me!

My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perished thing, Melt and remould it, till it be A royal cup for Him my King: O Jesus, drink of me!

This Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after year, And still their flame is strong. "Watchman, what of the night?" we cry, Heart-sick with hope deferred: "No speaking signs are in the sky," Is still the watchman's word.

The Porter watches at the gate, The servants watch within; The watch is long betimes and late, The prize is slow to win. "Watchman, what of the night?" but still His answer sounds the same: "No daybreak tops the utmost hill, Nor pale our lamps of flame."

One to another hear them speak, The patient virgins wise: "Surely He is not far to seek,"— "All night we watch and rise." "The days are evil looking back, The coming days are dim; Yet count we not His promise slack, But watch and wait for Him."

One with another, soul with soul, They kindle fire from fire: "Friends watch us who have touched the goal." "They urge us, come up higher." "With them shall rest our waysore feet, With them is built our home, With Christ." "They sweet, but He most sweet, Sweeter than honeycomb."

There no more parting, no more pain, The distant ones brought near, The lost so long are found again, Long lost but longer dear: Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, Nor heart conceived that rest, With them our good things long deferred, With Jesus Christ our Best.

We weep because the night is long, We laugh, for day shall rise, We sing a slow contented song And knock at Paradise. Weeping we hold Him fast Who wept For us,—we hold Him fast; And will not let Him go except He bless us first or last.

Weeping we hold Him fast to-night; We will not let Him go Till daybreak smite our wearied sight, And summer smite the snow: Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove Shall coo the livelong day; Then He shall say, "Arise, My love, My fair one, come away."

"Sweet, thou art pale." "More pale to see, Christ hung upon the cruel tree And bore His Father's wrath for me."

"Sweet, thou art sad." "Beneath a rod More heavy, Christ for my sake trod The winepress of the wrath of God."

"Sweet, thou art weary." "Not so Christ: Whose mighty love of me sufficed For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."

"Sweet, thou art footsore." "If I bleed, His feet have bled: yea, in my need His Heart once bled for mine indeed."

"Sweet, thou art young." "So He was young Who for my sake in silence hung Upon the Cross with Passion wrung."

"Look, thou art fair." "He was more fair Than men, Who deigned for me to wear A visage marred beyond compare."

"And thou hast riches." "Daily bread: All else is His; Who living, dead, For me lacked where to lay His Head."

"And life is sweet." "It was not so To Him, Whose Cup did overflow With mine unutterable woe."

"Thou drinkest deep." "When Christ would sup He drained the dregs from out my cup: So how should I be lifted up?"

"Thou shalt win Glory." "In the skies, Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes Lest they should look on vanities."

"Thou shalt have Knowledge." "Helpless dust, In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust: Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just."

"And Might." "Get thee behind me. Lord, Who hast redeemed and not abhorred My soul, O keep it by Thy Word."

Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith, All things are vanity. The eye and ear Cannot be filled with what they see and hear. Like early dew, or like the sudden breath Of wind, or like the grass that withereth, Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear: So little joy hath he, so little cheer, Till all things end in the long dust of death. To-day is still the same as yesterday, To-morrow also even as one of them; And there is nothing new under the sun: Until the ancient race of Time be run, The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem, And morning shall be cold, and twilight gray.

"O happy happy land! Angels like rushes stand About the wells of light."— "Alas, I have not eyes for this fair sight: Hold fast my hand."—

"As in a soft wind, they Bend all one blessed way, Each bowed in his own glory, star with star."— "I cannot see so far, Here shadows are."—

"White-winged the cherubim, Yet whiter seraphim, Glow white with intense fire of love."— "Mine eyes are dim: I look in vain above, And miss their hymn."—

"Angels, Archangels cry One to other ceaselessly (I hear them sing) One 'Holy, Holy, Holy,' to their King."— "I do not hear them, I."—

"Joy to thee, Paradise,— Garden and goal and nest! Made green for wearied eyes; Much softer than the breast Of mother-dove clad in a rainbow's dyes.

"All precious souls are there Most safe, elect by grace, All tears are wiped forever from their face: Untired in prayer They wait and praise, Hidden for a little space.

"Boughs of the Living Vine, They spread in summer shine Green leaf with leaf: Sap of the Royal Vine, it stirs like wine In all both less and chief.

"Sing to the Lord, All spirits of all flesh, sing; For He hath not abhorred Our low estate nor scorned our offering: Shout to our King."—

"But Zion said: My Lord forgetteth me. Lo, she hath made her bed In dust; forsaken weepeth she Where alien rivers swell the sea.

"She laid her body as the ground, Her tender body as the ground to those Who passed; her harpstrings cannot sound In a strange land; discrowned She sits, and drunk with woes."—

"O drunken not with wine, Whose sins and sorrows have fulfilled the sum,— Be not afraid, arise, be no more dumb; Arise, shine, For thy light is come."—

"Can these bones live?"— "God knows: The prophet saw such clothed with flesh and skin A wind blew on them and life entered in; They shook and rose. Hasten the time, O Lord, blot out their sin, Let life begin."

The sweetest blossoms die. And so it was that, going day by day Unto the church to praise and pray, And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully, I saw how on the graves the flowers Shed their fresh leaves in showers, And how their perfume rose up to the sky Before it passed away.

The youngest blossoms die. They die and fall and nourish the rich earth From which they lately had their birth; Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by And is as though it had not been:— All colors turn to green; The bright hues vanish and the odors fly, The grass hath lasting worth.

And youth and beauty die. So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth: Better than beauty and than youth Are Saints and Angels, a glad company; And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease, Art better far than these. Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why Prefer to glean with Ruth?

I watched a rosebud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then, when I thought it should be strong, It opened at the matin hour And fell at even-song.

I watched a nest from day to day, A green nest full of pleasant shade, Wherein three speckled eggs were laid: But when they should have hatched in May, The two old birds had grown afraid Or tired, and flew away.

Then in my wrath I broke the bough That I had tended so with care, Hoping its scent should fill the air; I crushed the eggs, not heeding how Their ancient promise had been fair: I would have vengeance now.

But the dead branch spoke from the sod, And the eggs answered me again: Because we failed dost thou complain? Is thy wrath just? And what if God, Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, Should also take the rod?

Flowers preach to us if we will hear:— The rose saith in the dewy morn, I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn. The poppy saith amid the corn: Let but my scarlet head appear And I am held in scorn; Yet juice of subtle virtue lies Within my cup of curious dyes. The lilies say: Behold how we Preach without words of purity. The violets whisper from the shade Which their own leaves have made: Men scent our fragrance on the air, Yet take no heed Of humble lessons we would read.

But not alone the fairest flowers: The merest grass Along the roadside where we pass, Lichen and moss and sturdy weed, Tell of His love who sends the dew, The rain and sunshine too, To nourish one small seed.

By day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair: But all night as the moon so changeth she; Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy, And subtle serpents gliding in her hair. By day she wooes me to the outer air, Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety: But through the night, a beast she grins at me, A very monster void of love and prayer. By day she stands a lie: by night she stands, In all the naked horror of the truth, With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands. Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell My soul to her, give her my life and youth, Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?

I said of laughter, it is vain. Of mirth I said, what profits it? Therefore I found a book, and writ Therein how ease and also pain, How health and sickness, every one Is vanity beneath the sun.

Man walks in a vain shadow; he Disquieteth himself in vain. The things that were shall be again. The rivers do not fill the sea, But turn back to their secret source; The winds too turn upon their course.

Our treasures moth and rust corrupt, Or thieves break through and steal, or they Make themselves wings and fly away. One man made merry as he supped, Nor guessed how when that night grew dim His soul would be required of him.

We build our houses on the sand, Comely withoutside and within; But when the winds and rains begin To beat on them, they cannot stand; They perish, quickly overthrown, Loose from the very basement stone.

All things are vanity, I said,— Yea, vanity of vanities. The rich man dies; and the poor dies; The worm feeds sweetly on the dead. Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust: All in the end shall have but dust:

The one inheritance, which best And worst alike shall find and share: The wicked cease from troubling there, And there the weary be at rest; There all the wisdom of the wise Is vanity of vanities.

Man flourishes as a green leaf, And as a leaf doth pass away; Or, as a shade that cannot stay And leaves no track, his course is brief: Yet man doth hope and fear and plan Till he is dead:—O foolish man!

Our eyes cannot be satisfied With seeing, nor our ears be filled With hearing: yet we plant and build And buy and make our borders wide; We gather wealth, we gather care, But know not who shall be our heir.

Why should we hasten to arise So early, and so late take rest? Our labor is not good; our best Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies: Verily, we sow wind; and we Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.

He who hath little shall not lack; He who hath plenty shall decay: Our fathers went; we pass away; Our children follow on our track: So generations fail, and so They are renewed and come and go.

The earth is fattened with our dead; She swallows more and doth not cease: Therefore her wine and oil increase And her sheaves are not numberèd; Therefore her plants are green, and all Her pleasant trees lusty and tall.

Therefore the maidens cease to sing, And the young men are very sad; Therefore the sowing is not glad, And mournful is the harvesting. Of high and low, of great and small, Vanity is the lot of all.

A King dwelt in Jerusalem; He was the wisest man on earth; He had all riches from his birth, And pleasures till he tired of them; Then, having tested all things, he Witnessed that all are vanity.