Francis Ellingwood Abbot (1836–1903)

ART Thou the Life?

To Thee, then, do I owe each beat and breath,

And wait Thy ordering of the hour of death,

In peace or strife.

Art Thou the Light?

To Thee, then, in the sunshine or the cloud,

Or in my chamber lone or in the crowd,

I lift my sight.

Art Thou the Truth?

To Thee, then, loved and craved and sought of yore,

I consecrate my manhood o’er and o’er,

As once my youth.

Art Thou the Strong?

To Thee, then, though the air is thick with night,

I trust the seeming unprotected Right,

And leave the Wrong.

Art Thou the Wise?

To Thee, then, do I bring each useless-care,

And bid my soul unsay her idle prayer,

And hush her cries.

Art Thou the Good?

To Thee, then, with a thirsting heart I turn,

And stand, and at Thy fountain hold my urn,

As aye I stood.

Forgive the call!

I cannot shut Thee from my sense or soul,

I cannot lose me in thy boundless whole,—

For Thou art All!