VIII. A SONNET FOR THE TIMES
What! weeping? Had ye your Christ yesterday,
Close wound in linen, made your own by tears,
Kisses, and pounds of myrrh, the sepulchre’s
Mere stone most venerable? And now ye say
“No man hath seen Him, He is borne away
We wot not where.” And so, with many a sigh,
Watching the linen clothes and napkin lie,
Ye choose about the grave’s sad mouth to stay.
Blind hearts! Why seek the living amongst the dead?
Better than carols for the babe new-born
The shining young men’s speech “He is not here;”
Why question where the feet lay, where the head?
Come forth; bright o’er the world breaks Easter morn,
He is arisen, Victor o’er grief and fear.
IX. EMMAUSWARD
Lord Christ, if Thou art with us and these eyes
Are holden, while we go sadly and say
“We hoped it had been He, and now to-day
Is the third day, and hope within us dies,”
Bear with us, O our Master, Thou art wise
And knowest our foolishness; we do not pray
“Declare Thyself, since weary grows the way
And faith’s new burden hard upon us lies.”
Nay, choose Thy time; but ah! whoe’er Thou art
Leave us not; where have we heard any voice
Like Thine? Our hearts burn in us as we go;
Stay with us; break our bread; so, for our part
Ere darkness falls haply we may rejoice,
Haply when day has been far spent may know.
X. A FAREWELL
Thou movest from us; we shall see Thy face
No more. Ah, look below these troubled eyes,
This woman’s heart in us that faints and dies,
Trust not our faltering lips, our sad amaze;
Glance some time downward from Thy golden place,
And know how we rejoice. It is meet, is wise;
High tasks are Thine, surrenders, victories,
Communings pure, mysterious works and ways.
Leave us: how should we keep Thee in these blown
Grey fields, or soil with earth a Master’s feet?
Nor deem us comfortless: have we not known
Thee once, for ever. Friend, the pain is sweet
Seeing Thy completeness to have grown complete,
Thy gift it is that we can walk alone.
XI. DELIVERANCE
I prayed to be delivered, O true God,
Not from the foes that compass us about,—
Them I might combat; not from any doubt
That wrings the soul; not from Thy bitter rod
Smiting the conscience; not from plagues abroad,
Nor my strong inward lusts; nor from the rout
Of worldly men, the scourge, the spit, the flout,
And the whole dolorous way the Master trod.
All these would rouse the life that lurks within,
Would save or slay; these things might be defied
Or strenuously endured; yea, pressed by sin
The soul is stung with sudden, visiting gleams;
Leave these, if Thou but scatter, Lord, I cried,
The counterfeiting shadows and vain dreams.