And He, the Eternal, the Ancient of Days—
Whose splendors are veiled by inscrutable ways—
Did he frown on such blindness, or envy thee praise?
O Sun! in the light of whose presence we see,
We ask,—canst thou tell us?—what caused us to be?
And how are we linked to creation and thee?
We must perish—but thou, by thy wonderful powers,
Wilt rescue from darkness these bodies of ours,
And fashion them over to verdure and flowers.
But the jewel of beauty in life’s golden bowl—
O, answer us—say—dost thou also control
That Infinite Essence, the life of the soul?
There is doubt, there is darkness and fear in our cry:
Dost thou drink up the pearl of our lives when we die?
We listen—but silence alone makes reply.
It is well—for our spirits may know by the sign,
That a might hath evoked thee far greater than thine,
And we must seek Truth at life’s innermost shrine.
That Centre of Being, transcending all thought,
Whose might hath perfection of beauty outwrought,
Returns the great answer of peace which we sought.
And we know, when the race of the planets is run,
And the day shall no longer behold thee, O Sun!
Our souls shall find light with that Infinite One.
O Source of all Being! whose name everywhere
Is sung in hosannas, or murmured in prayer,
We trust, unreserving, our souls to thy care.