Which the King of kings O'er the dreadfulness of eternal things A tapestried tent To shade us meant From the bare everlasting firmament ; Comes soft to our eyes Through a veil of mystical imageries. But could I see As in truth they be, The glories of Heaven that encompass me, The tissued fold Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold. Soon the whole Like a parchèd scroll At one burst be seen The Presence wherein I have ever been. O! who shall bear The blinding glare Of the Majesty that shall meet us there? What eye may gaze On the unveil'd blaze Of the light-girdled throne of the Ancient of days? Christ us aid! Himself be our shade, That in that dread day we be not dismay'd. T. Whytehead LVI THE THIRD DAY OF CREATION Thou spakest, and the waters roll'd They fled, by Thy strong voice controll'd, And freshly risen from out the deep As when in after time the earth Again Thou spakest, Lord of power, Like souls, wherein the hidden strength F Lord, o'er the waters of my soul Till that in peaceful order flowing, For, restless as the moaning sea, But sway'd by Thee, 'tis like the river Then in my heart, Spirit of might, And bid a spring-tide, calm and bright, So let it lie with Heaven's grace Full shining on its quiet face, Like the young earth in peace profound, Amid the assuagèd waters round. LVII T. Whytehead THE SEVENTH DAY OF CREATION Sabbath of the saints of old, Day of mysteries manifold; I with thoughts of thee would seek To sanctify the closing week. Resting from His work, the Lord Spake to-day the hallowing word; And, His wondrous labours done, Now the everlasting Son Gave to heaven and earth the sign Of a wonder more divine. Resting from His work to-day, Hid beneath the sealèd stone. All the seventh day long I ween By the sepulchre to wait, Where her buried Lord was laid. So with Thee till life shall end Myrrh and spices I will bring, Close the door from sight and sound And in patient watch remain Then, the new creation done, T. Whytehead LVIII SLEEPING ON THE WATERS While snows, even from the mild south-west, What kindlier home, what safer nest The scarlet tufts so cheerily Whose garden care they know. Old winter's spite they laugh to scorn :- |