A CONVERT'S PRAYER.
"Too late have I known thee, O ancient truth! Too long have I wandered from thee, O ancient beauty!"
Saint Augustine.
INSCRIBED TO THE REV. FATHER WELCH, S.J.
Is it too late, O Lord! too late,
To thee who count'st not time
As we thy finite creatures do,
By cycles as they chime?
By years, and months, and fleeting days—
Not so thou countest, Lord;
A thousand years are in thy sight
As yesterday's brief word.
Or is it only late for me,
Late for earth's fleeting day,
Because the best of life is gone—
My youth has passed away?
Its fresh love, though, was given to thee;
Yet now, how cold it seems,
And I as one who shadows chased
In labyrinths of dreams.
In faith I walk now with thee, Lord,
As when Incarnate here
The wondering Jews looked on thy face,
And to thy words gave ear.
I am with thee at the marriage feast
In Cana's peaceful dale,
I hear thy Blessed Mother's voice
O'er thee in love prevail.
I hear thee answer her, and bring
From water even wine,
And mark that wondrous miracle
Which stamps thee God Divine!
And then, amid thy chosen twelve
The mystic supper spread,
With only juice pressed from the vine,
And only wheaten bread;
And yet, as at fair Cana's feast,
Faith's miracle there stood,
This bread thy word transforms to flesh,
This wine into thy blood!
I hear thee say those solemn words,
"Except my flesh ye eat,
And drink my blood, no life have ye,"
No love for me complete!
I hear the Jew, "How can this man
Give us his flesh to eat?"
I mark thy silence; then, again,
Thy solemn words repeat.
This is faith's lesson. Lord, I bow
Submissive to thy word,
Nor ask I "how:" it is enough
That thou hast said it, Lord!
O wondrous mystery of faith!
Great God, thou dost retain
The vision of thy presence till
We cease to say, "Explain."
And last, I see thee on the cross,
Thine arms extended wide,
As if to draw the world to thee
To kiss thy wounded side.
And then, down-lifted from the cross,
And in the linen laid,
With spices pressed by Mary's hand
In wounds the spear had made.
All this I see, and in the night
Thy voice comes low and sweet,
And bids me, sinner as I am,
To kiss thy wounded feet.
And each dear hand, once raised to bless,
To heal, now torn and riven—
Lord, in those bleeding hands take mine,
Nor let them go till heaven
Shall take me, wanderer, safely in,
Where all these tears and sighs
Shall on thy breast be hushed to rest,
In golden paradise!
Then is it late, "too late," O Lord?
I am waiting in the porch
To hear those "gates of pearl" unbar,
And enter in thy church;
To find sure anchor, peace and rest,
From error, sorrow, sin;
I am very weary of earth's strife—
Lord, let thy wanderer in.
Sophia May Eckley.
St. Gertrude's Day, Nov. 15, 1869.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.