Chapter 118
Ye know G.o.d but as Lord, hence Lord his name with ye, I feel him but as love, and Love his name with me.
Though Christ a thousand times in Bethlehem be born, If he's not born in thee thy soul is all forlorn.
The cross on Golgotha will never save thy soul, The cross in thine own heart alone can make thee whole.
Christ rose not from the dead, Christ still is in the grave If thou for whom he died art still of sin the slave.
In all eternity no tone can be so sweet As where man's heart with G.o.d in unison doth beat.
Whate'er thou lovest, man, that, too, become thou must; G.o.d, if thou lovest G.o.d, dust, if thou lovest dust.
Ah, would thy heart but be a manger for the birth, G.o.d would once more become a child on earth.
Immeasurable is the highest; who but knows it?
And yet a human heart can perfectly enclose it.
--Johannes Scheffler.
THE LARGER VIEW
In buds upon some Aaron's rod The childlike ancient saw his G.o.d; Less credulous, more believing, we Read in the gra.s.s--Divinity.
From h.o.r.eb's bush the Presence spoke To earlier faiths and simpler folk; But now each bush that sweeps our fence Flames with the Awful Immanence!
To old Zacchaeus in his tree What mattered leaves and botany?
His sycamore was but a seat Whence he could watch that hallowed street.
But now to us each elm and pine Is vibrant with the Voice divine, Not only from but in the bough Our larger creed beholds him now.
To the true faith, bark, sap, and stem Are wonderful as Bethlehem; No hill nor brook nor field nor herd But mangers the Incarnate Word!
Far be it from our lips to cast Contempt upon the holy past-- Whate'er the Finger writes we scan In manger, prophecy, or man.
Again we touch the healing hem In Nazareth or Jerusalem; We trace again those faultless years; The cross commands our wondering tears.
Yet if to us the Spirit writes On Morning's ma.n.u.script and Night's, In gospels of the growing grain, Epistles of the pond and plain,
In stars,
Thrice ingrate he whose only look Is backward focussed on the Book, Neglectful what the Presence saith, Though he be near as blood and breath!
The only atheist is one Who hears no Voice in wind or sun, Believer in some primal curse, Deaf in G.o.d's loving universe!
--Frederic Lawrence Knowles.
STILL WITH THEE
Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with thee.
Alone with thee amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born; Alone with thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.
As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean The image of the morning-star doth rest, So in this stillness thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast.
Still, still with thee! as to each new born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, So does this blessed consciousness awaking Breathe each day nearness unto thee and heaven.
When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eyes look up to thee in prayer; Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading, But sweeter still, to wake and find thee there.
So shall it be at last, in that bright morning, When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee; O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought--I am with thee.
--Harriet Beecher Stowe.
There lives and works a soul in all things, And that soul is G.o.d.
--William Cowper.
THE ELIXIR
Teach me, my G.o.d and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do, in anything, To do it as for thee.
A man that looks on gla.s.s On it may stay his eye, Or, if he pleaseth, through it pa.s.s And then to heaven espy.
All may of thee partake.
Nothing can be so mean Which with this tincture (_for thy sake_) Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine.
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws Makes that and th' action fine.
This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which G.o.d doth touch and own Cannot for less be told.
--George Herbert.
G.o.d'S PRESENCE
But G.o.d is never so far off As even to be near.
He is within; our spirit is The home he holds most dear.
To think of him as by our side Is almost as untrue As to remove his throne beyond Those skies of starry blue.
So all the while I thought myself Homeless, forlorn, and weary, Missing my joy, I walked the earth, Myself G.o.d's sanctuary.
I come to thee once more, my G.o.d!
No longer will I roam; For I have sought the wide world through And never found a home.
Though bright and many are the spots Where I have built a nest-- Yet in the brightest still I pined For more abiding rest.