Walter Chalmers Smith (1824–1908)

Loquitur Thorold

BUT my Faith is not gone, although

At times it seems to fade away.

I would I were as long ago;

I cling to God, and strive to say,

The devil and all his reasons Nay:

But in the crucible of thought

Old forms dissolve, nor have I got,

Or seem to wish, new moulds of clay

To limit the boundless truth I sought.

Can the great God be aught but vague,

Bounded by no horizon, save

What feeble minds create to plague

High Reason with? We madly crave

For definite truth, and make a grave,

Through too much certainty precise,

And logical distinction nice,

For all the little Faith we have,

Buying clear views at a terrible price.

Too dear, indeed, to part with Faith

For forms of logic about God,

And walk in lucid realms of death,

Whose paths incredible are trod

By no soul living. Faith’s abode

Is mystery for evermore;

Its life to worship and adore,

And meekly bow beneath the rod,

When the day is dark, and the burden sore.