Let me be at Thy feet a little space,
Forget me here;
I will not touch Thy hand, nor seek Thy face,
Only be near,
And this hour let Thy nearness feed the heart,
And when Thou goest I also will depart.
Then when Thou seekest Thy way, and I, mine
Let the World be
Not wide and cold after this cherishing shrine
Illum’d by Thee,
Nay, but worth worship, fair, a radiant star,
Tender and strong as Thy chief angels are.
Yet bid me not go forth: I cannot now
Take hold on joy,
Nor sing the swift, glad song, nor bind my brow;
Her wise employ
Be mine, the silent woman at Thy knee
In the low room in little Bethany.
IV
Ah, that sharp thrill through all my frame!
And yet once more! Withstand
I can no longer; in Thy name
I yield me to Thy hand.
Such pangs were in the soul unborn,
The fear, the joy were such,
When first it felt in that keen morn
A dread, creating touch.
Maker of man, Thy pressure sure
This grosser stuff must quell;
The spirit faints, yet will endure,
Subdue, control, compel.
The Potter’s finger shaping me....
Praise, praise! the clay curves up
Not for dishonour, though it be
God’s least adornèd cup.
V
Sins grew a heavy load and cold,
And pressed me to the dust;
“Whither,” I cried, “can this be rolled
Ere I behold the Just?”