Rabbi, begone! Thy powers
Bring loss to us and ours.
Our ways are not as Thine.
Thou lovest men, we—swine.
Oh, get you hence, Omnipotence,
And take this fool of Thine!
His soul? What care we for his soul?
What good to us that Thou hast made him whole,
Since we have lost our swine?
And Christ went sadly.
He had wrought for them a sign
Of Love, and Hope, and Tenderness divine;
They wanted—swine.
Christ stands without your door and gently knocks;
But if your gold, or swine, the entrance blocks,
He forces no man's hold—he will depart,
And leave you to the treasures of your heart.
No cumbered chamber will the Master share,
But one swept bare
By cleansing fires, then plenished fresh and fair
With meekness, and humility, and prayer.
There will He come, yet, coming, even there
He stands and waits, and will no entrance win
Until the latch be lifted from within.
THE BELLS OF STEPAN ILINE
(Cradle Song from "The Long Road.")
Whisht, Baby! Whisht!
Quick below the cover!
Down into your nest, my bird!
And—don't—you—dare—peep—over!
For the grey wolves they are prowling,
They are prowling, they are prowling.
And the snow-wind it is howling,
It is howling, it is howling.
Hark!—Hark!—
Out there in the dark—
Ow—ooh! Ow—ooh!
S-s-s-s-s-seee—oo—ooh!
The wolves they are lean,
So-o-o lean, so-o-o lean!
And the wind it is keen,
So-o-o keen, so-o-o keen!
And they seek little babies who aren't sleeping!
But lie you still, my Baby dear!
Lie still, lie still, and maybe you'll hear—
Hark!—Hark!—
Out there in the dark,—
The silver bells and the golden bells,
The swinging bells and the singing bells,—
The bells that are heard but never are seen,
The wind and the wolves, and the bells in between,—
The bells of Iline,
Good Stepan Iline,—
The bells of good Stepan Iline!
BOLT THAT DOOR!
Each sin has its door of entrance.
Keep—that—door—closed!
Bolt it tight!
Just outside, the wild beast crouches
In the night.
Pin the bolt with a prayer,
God will fix it there.
GIANT CIRCUMSTANCE
Though every nerve be strained
To fine accomplishment,
Full oft the life fall spent
Before the prize is gained.
And, in our discontent
At waste so evident,
In doubt and vast discouragement
We wonder what is meant.
But, tracing back, we find
A Power that held the ways—
A Mighty Hand, a Master Mind,
That all the troubled course defined
And overruled the days.
Some call it Fate; some—Chance;
Some—Giant Circumstance;
And some, upreaching to the sense
Of God within the circumstance,
Do call it—Providence!