And open wide our golden doors,
Proclaiming while his splendour pours
Over the world he comes to win:
"The King of Glory shall come in!"
MATINS
Good morning, friend! What of the night?
Through yonder cloud one shaft of light,
Shot from the bow of Hunter Day,
Strikes on the world; his hound-winds bay
Down valleys where the wheat and rye
Their gold with green of forest vie.
Lift up your head! Behold how fair
Creation is: The ocean-air
Beats billowing upon the strand
Of endless leagues of summer land,
And freighted ships of scented bales,
Wild blossoms, spread their tinctured sails.
See how God with an artist's grace
Gives soul to every flower-face!
Beneath His touch a leaf is green,
A berry, red! Mark how, between
The captive daisies, come and pass
Phalanxes of the guarding grass!
The night was dark, you say: wild fears
Took shape on torrent-flood of tears;
Dim phantoms of the host of hate
Pursued you down the gulfs of fate,
Smiting you with their harpy-wings
Up steeps of weird imaginings!
My friend! Each in his turn has known
Night and her shapes of fear; the stone
Of striving Sisyphus has torn
All who have dared the mount of Morn:
The tree where Buddha's vision fell
Was planted in a pit of hell!
No soul has seen its promised land,
Who felt not first some Pharaoh's hand—
Behind achievement, stir and stress
Of desert-days and wilderness;
Learn by the way that Jesu trod
How from the brute man grows a god!
Who stands against you in your path
May reap with you your aftermath;
And less of bitterness than bliss
Is stored within a traitor's kiss:
The demon who holds back your soul
Will crown you victor at the goal!