A STILL SMALL VOICE
IN the silence of the morning, through the softly-rising mist,
As the chrysolite of dawning ripened into amethyst,
Came a voice so clear, peremptory, that my soul could not but list:
"Unto thyself be true!"
In the rush and swirl of noontide, 'mid a gale of voices loud,
And keen eyes that flashed their lightnings over faces thunder-browed,
Came a voice imperious, alien to the voices of the crowd:
"Be to thy brother true!"
In the calmness of the evening, when the winds had sunk to rest,
When no earthquake heaved its fury, burned no fire within my breast,
Came a still small voice so tender, it the heart of Christ confessed:
"Unto thy God be true!"