Give me to keep thy new command,
Who at thy precious blood was priced;
Make all my world a holy land,
Let all my life be Christ.
XLIX
THE REFUGE OF THE WANDERING
Cold and cruel as the winds that carry
Arctic hills of ice and snow,
Past the cliffs where skirling sea-birds tarry
And the seething breakers flow.
Burning as the Afric wind that races
Northward from its desert land,
Wind that blasts and covers green oases
With its ropes of parching sand.
Rough and angry as the winds that bluster
Where Tibetan temples shine,
Winds like savage lancers come to muster
On an Eastern frontier line.
Sad and blind as winds that wander sobbing,
Where the raw Atlantic mist
From the stars their pearly radiance robbing,
Grips the shore with damp white fist.
So our souls from every quarter eddy,
North and South and East and West,
Jesu, till the wayward and the ready
On thy heart all sink to rest.
L
THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER
On to the bank that recedes,
On through the shadows that mock,
Tearing my staff from the weeds,
Bruising my feet on the rock,
Caught by this Babe who appealed,
Calling to echoes astray;
Would that my heart I had steeled,
Left Him to listen till day!
Child, who dost crush me with weight,
Child of the pitiful eyes,
Whence didst Thou come to my gate?
How didst Thou fool me to rise
From my lone bed?
Sweeter than bells at the Mass,
Older and newer than time,
Charming the shadows to pass
Ringeth His voice in a chime.
Firm is the touch of His hands,
Soft as my mother’s caress,
Loosing my misery’s bands,
Calming the wrath I confess.
Child, who hast healed all my pain,
Joy of my soul, must we part
Just when the bank we shall gain?
Blest be these feet on my heart!
They too have bled.