THE LAW OF COMPASSION
THE TRUE MUSIC
Not for the things we sing or say
He listens, who beside us stoops;
Too worn the feet, too hard the way,
Too sore the Cross wherewith He droops,
And much too great the need that cries
From these bruised eyelids and dim eyes.
He waits the water from the spring
Of kindness in the human heart,
The touch of hands, whose touches bring
A coolness to the wounds that smart,
The warm tears falling on His feet
Than precious ointment much more sweet.
O Lord, the way is hard and steep,
Help me to walk that way with Thee,
To watch with Thee, and not to sleep
Heedless of Thy Gethsemane,
Till love becomes my worshipping,
Who have no other gift to bring.
It is no hour for angel-harp,
The sky is dark, the Cross is near,
The agony of Death is sharp,
The scorn of men upbraids Thine ear.
Fain would I leave all empty creeds,
And make a music of my deeds.