ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI.
My brothers, ye are sad, and my sisters, ye are poor,
But once was holy poverty the cloak that angels wore;
My fathers, ye are lame, and my children, pale ye be,
But in every face, by his dear grace, that blessed Lord I see
Who brother is and father is, and all things, unto me.
In the sigh of sick men's prayers, in the woeful leper's eye,
In the pangs of wicked men, in the groans of them that die,
Thy voice I hear, thine eye I see, thy thought doth hedge me in.
Oh! may thy sinner bear thy stripes for them that toil in sin,
And with thy ransomed suffering ones find me my choicest kin.
For, whether down to pious rest on these bare stones I lie,
Or if at last upon thy cross triumphantly I die,
The joy of thee, the praise of thee, is more than all reward;
For holy misery doth most with heavenly bliss accord:
All ways are sweet, all wounds are dear, to them that seek the Lord.
I made a harp to praise the Lord with ever-glorious strain;
I tuned a harp to praise my God, and all its strings were pain:
Its song was like to fire, but sweet its keenest agony,
And thus in every tune and tear its burden seemed to be,
"So great is the joy that I expect, all pain is joy to me."
Through all the weary world do I an exiled orphan roam,
Yet for thy sake were desert cave a palace and a home;
And birds, and flowers, and stars are lights to read thy Scripture by,
And earth is but a comment rude unto thy wondrous sky,
The which to reach, my soul must teach earth's body how to die.
With thy wayfaring ones my crust I've broken by the brooks,
When flowers were as our children fair, our comrades were the oaks,
And wildest forests for thy praise were churches, choirs, and clarks—
Such house and kindred doth he find who to thy wisdom harks.
Praise ye the Lord, ye spirits small—my sisters sweet, the larks!
The untented air is home for me who in thy promise sleep,
Or wake to find thee ever nigh, and still my sins to weep;
And holy poverty's disguise is pleasant to thine eye;
Yea, richer garb was never worn, that treasures may not buy,
Since thou hast clad me with thy love, and clothed me with the sky.
Oh! could I for one moment's light thy heavenly body see,
All joy were pain, all pain were joy, all toil were bliss to me.
I would give mine eyes for weeping, and my blood should flow like wine,
To purchase in that sight of bliss one blessed look of thine,
Who hath ransomed with a crown of pain this sinful soul of mine!
My brethren, ye are poor, but as children ye are wise,
Who wander through the wilderness in quest of paradise.
O little children! seek the Lord, wherever he may be,
Whose blessed face by his dear grace on every side I see,
Who brother is, who father is, and all things, unto ye.