With anguish cry our souls to heaven,
whence no hint of Presence comes,
though in the sky the clouds are riven,
dooming like the battle-drums.
With worry do our hearts seek solace
in the church and temple-place;
but ah! is not our God too flawless
to be confined to such small space?
His mercy is the sun in brilliance;
you see it every day from dawn
as it bursts forth with new resilience
on the dewdrops of the lawn.
And think, O man, with what strange wile
you see no God as, hurt, you pray --
though God beams back in each bright smile
of ladies beautiful as day!
For God moves not just star and ocean,
nor just planet in its round;
he moves your mind to lightning-notion
as drummer moves the drum to sound;
and as the writer guides the pen
with writing straight and crooked line,
so God takes up your heart within
and writes with penmanship divine.
Not in heaven only glory
rides on cherubim of grace,
nor is providential story
writ only in your praying-place!
But lo! the world that bursts and flowers,
the scent and feel of fresh-cut sod,
the maiden waiting in her bower --
here look and see the Face of God!