STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen Thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, Thy foot Is on the skull which Thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die;
And Thou hast made him: Thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, Thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them Thine.
Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of Thee, And Thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see ;
And yet we trust it comes from Thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
We are fools and slight;
We mock Thee when we do not fear : But help Thy foolish ones to bear; Help Thy vain worlds to bear Thy light.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
By a way wandering as I went
Well sore I sorrowed, for sighing sad,
Of hardé haps that I had hent,
Mourning me made almost mad,
Till a letter all one me had
That well was written on a wall,
A blissful word that on I rad,
That alway said "Thank God of all!
And yet I read furthermore,
Full good intent I took theretill,
Christ may well your state restore,
Nought is to strive against His will;
He may us spare and also spill,
Think right well we ben His thrall,
What sorrow we suffer, loud or still,
Alway thank God of all.
What divers sonde that God thee send,
Here or in any other place,
Také it with good intent,
The sooner God will send His grace;
Though thy body be brought full bas,
Let not thy heart adown fall,
But think thee God is where he was,
And alway thank God of all.
For Christés love be not so wild
But rule thee by reason within and without,
And take in good heart and mild
The sonde that God sent all about
Then dare I say withouten doubt,
That in Heaven is made thy stall,
Rich and poor that low will lout,
Alway thank God of all.
LITTLE lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead :
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright:
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name
For He calls Himself a Lamb,
He is meek and He is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child and thou a lamb
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!
"Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn!
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn."
O THOU, whose mighty palace-roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
And through whole solemn hours dost sit and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds—
In desolate places where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth,
Bethinking thee how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow,
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!
O Thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side.
Of thine enmossèd realms; O thou, to whom
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn
To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year
All its completions-be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
O forester divine! . . .
O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms
To keep off mildew, and all weather harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribèd sounds,
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread Opener of the mysterious doors
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