I know not: one indeed I knew
In many a subtle question versed,
Who touched a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:
Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
He fought his doubts and gathered strength,
He would not make his judgment blind,
He faced the spectres of the mind
And laid them: thus he came at length
To find a stronger faith his own;
And Power was with him in the night,
Which makes the darkness and the light,
And dwells not in the light alone,
But in the darkness and the cloud,
As over Sinai's peaks of old,
While Israel made their gods of gold,
Although the trumpet blew so loud.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
* * * * *
MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND.
My times are in thy hand!
I know not what a day
Or e'en an hour may bring to me,
But I am safe while trusting thee,
Though all things fade away.
All weakness, I
On him rely
Who fixed the earth and spread the starry sky.
My times are in thy hand!
Pale poverty or wealth.
Corroding care or calm repose.
Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows.
Sickness or buoyant health,—
Whate'er betide,
If God provide,
'T is for the best; I wish no lot beside.