. Religious poems . rne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain. Ah ! when before that blast my hopes all flee, Let mv soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee ! Third Hour. 75 Between the mysteries of death and life Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining ; We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze, And our charmed hearts forget their drear com-plaining. Xo crushing fate, no stony destiny, O Lamb that hast been slain, we find in thee! The many waves of thought, the mighty tides,The ground-swell that rolls up from otherlands, From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores,Whose echo dashes on
. Religious poems . rne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain. Ah ! when before that blast my hopes all flee, Let mv soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee ! Third Hour. 75 Between the mysteries of death and life Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining ; We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze, And our charmed hearts forget their drear com-plaining. Xo crushing fate, no stony destiny, O Lamb that hast been slain, we find in thee! The many waves of thought, the mighty tides,The ground-swell that rolls up from otherlands, From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores,Whose echo dashes on lifes wave-worn strands. This vague, dark tumult of the inner sea Grows calm, grows bright, O risen Lord, in thee ! Thy pierced hand guides the mysterious wheels ;Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crownof power ; j6 Hours of the Night And when the dread enigma presseth sore, Thy patient voice saith, Watch with me sinks the moaning river in the seaIn silver peace, so sinks my soul in thee ! Fourth V. FOURTH HOUR. THE SORROWS OF MARY. DEDICATED TO THE MOTHERS WHO HAVE LOST SONS l\THE LATE WAR. SLEPT, but my heart was waking, And out in my dreams I sped, Through the streets of an ancient city. Where Jesus, the Lord, lay * 78 Hours of the Night. He was lying all cold and lowly,And the sepulchre was sealed, And the women that bore the spicesHad come from the holy field. There is feasting in Pilates palace,There is revel in Herods hall, Where the lute and the sounding instrumentTo mirth and merriment call. I have washed my hands, said Pilate, And what is the Jew to me ? I have missed my chance, said Herod, One of his wonders to see. But why should our courtly circle To the thought give further place ?All dreams, save of pleasure and beauty, Bid the dancers feet efface. * # * # Fourth Hour. 79 I saw a light from a casement, And entered a lowly door,Where a woman, stricken and mournful, Sat in sackcloth on the floor. There Mary, the mother of Jesus, And John,
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