The world is good in its own poor way,
There is rest by night and high spirits by day;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
The cross shines fair, and the church-bell rings,
And the earth is peopled with holy things;
Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,—
Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!
What lackest thou, world? for God made thee of old;
Why,—thy faith hath gone out, and thy love grown cold;
Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,
For the want of Christ's simplicity.
It is blood that thou lackest, thou poor old world!
Who shall make thy love hot for thee, frozen old world?
Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be,
For the love of dear Jesus is little in thee.
Poor world! if thou cravest a better day,
Remember that Christ must have his own way;
I mourn thou art not as thou mightest be,
But the love of God would do all for thee.
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
* * * * *
THE CRY OF THE HUMAN.
"There is no God," the foolish saith,
But none, "There is no sorrow";
And nature oft the cry of faith
In bitter need will borrow:
Eyes which the preacher could not school,
By wayside graves are raised;
And lips say, "God be pitiful,"
Who ne'er said, "God be praised."
Be pitiful, O God!
The tempest stretches from the steep
The shadow of its coming;
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep,
As help were in the human:
Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind
We spirits tremble under!—
The hills have echoes; but we find
No answer for the thunder.
Be pitiful, O God!