He voices this renewal of vitality when in “Our Master,” he says:
“We touch him in life’s throng and press,
And we are whole again.”
They who have seen Whittier suddenly arrested in speech and action stand motionless with bent head and listening soul, and then for a moment uplift his face, his eyes glowing with inspiration, as if his own soul were sending back a message to the skies, can never doubt that there were moments when in the language of the prophets whom he loved, “an angel spake to him.”
Or was it that the heart of the Father Himself—the “Over-Heart,” as the poet has it—called to his heart?
Later, the poet would speak the message he had received. But the fullness, the joy of it no man could utter—unless he spoke in the tongue of Heaven.
It was in the garden room where the eyes of one who sat by in reverence had seen this bowed head, this look listening and rapt, this flashing upward glance responsive with joy and power, that the poet sat discoursing of many things of life and thought. In speaking of a creed—belief in the hard and fast-bound fate of all who did not reach what human beings considered the standard of faith—he said:
“If people really believed all the things that they think they believe concerning God and the future judgment of the lost, there would be no more smiling in the world.”
Yet no one could be farther from underestimating the danger of slighting human responsibility than was Whittier. His oft-repeated saying, “The Lord will do the best He can for us,” to Whittier always carried with it the certainty that God would respect man’s choice. It was linked with the poet’s assertions, “It’s better not to risk behaving in this world as if there were no other,” and, “We ought to do the best we can in this world.”