John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Religious PoemsOur Master
I
Forever flowing free,
Forever shared, forever whole,
A never-ebbing sea!
All other names above;
Love only knoweth whence it came
And comprehendeth love.
The mists of earth away!
Shine out, O Light Divine, and show
How wide and far we stray!
The strife of tongues forbear;
Why forward reach, or backward look,
For love that clasps like air?
To bring the Lord Christ down:
In vain we search the lowest deeps,
For Him no depths can drown.
The lineaments restore
Of Him we know in outward shape
And in the flesh no more.
The world’s long hope is dim;
The weary centuries watch in vain
The clouds of heaven for Him.
And ear are answerless;
The grave is dumb, the hollow sky
Is sad with silentness.
And every symbol wanes;
The Spirit over-brooding all
Eternal Love remains.
Or earth below they look,
Who know with John His smile of love,
With Peter His rebuke.
Of sorrow over sin,
He is His own best evidence,
His witness is within.
Nor dream of bards and seers,
No dead fact stranded on the shore
Of the oblivious years;—
A present help is He;
And faith has still its Olivet,
And love its Galilee.
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life’s throng and press,
And we are whole again.
Our lips of childhood frame,
The last low whispers of our dead
Are burdened with His name.
Whate’er our name or sign,
We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,
We test our lives by Thine.
Doth all our lusts condemn;
The love that draws us nearer Thee
Is hot with wrath to them.
And, naked to Thy glance,
Our secret sins are in the light
Of Thy pure countenance.
Thy tender light shines in;
Thy sweetness is the bitterness,
Thy grace the pang of sin.
Thou dost our service own;
We bring our varying gifts to Thee,
And Thou rejectest none.
Its joys and pains, belong;
The wrong of man to man on Thee
Inflicts a deeper wrong.
Therein to Thee allied;
All sweet accords of hearts and homes
In Thee are multiplied.
Within our earthly sod,
Most human and yet most divine,
The flower of man and God!
Thy presence maketh one
As through transfigured clouds of white
We trace the noon-day sun.
Flesh-veiled, but not concealed,
We know in Thee the fatherhood
And heart of God revealed.
In differing phrase we pray;
But, dim or clear, we own in Thee
The Light, the Truth, the Way!
Is still our Father’s own;
No jealous claim or rivalry
Divides the Cross and Throne.
As words are less than deeds,
And simple trust can find Thy ways
We miss with chart of creeds.
No place for me and mine;
Our human strength is weakness, death
Our life, apart from Thine.
All labor vainly done;
The solemn shadow of Thy Cross
Is better than the sun.
Thy saving name is given;
To turn aside from Thee is hell,
To walk with Thee is heaven!
Our noisy championship!
The sighing of the contrite heart
Is more than flattering lip.
Nor Thine the zealot’s ban;
Thou well canst spare a love of Thee
Which ends in hate of man.
What may Thy service be?—
Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,
But simply following Thee.
We pile no graven stone;
He serves thee best who loveth most
His brothers and Thy own.
Of love and gratitude;
Thy sacramental liturgies,
The joy of doing good.
The vaulted nave around,
In vain the minster turret lift
Its brazen weights of sound.
Thy inward altars raise;
Its faith and hope Thy canticles,
And its obedience praise!