Rippled like the wind-blown snow,
Clouds in blanket-hills below
Capture gleams that moonbeams cast
After plane-wings that have passed;
Wisps of ghostly shadows float,
Catching like a broken note
Shapes that wayward winds have wrought,
Subtly there, then subtly not,
As we in flight now leap and span
Mountains, lakes, and towns of man.
On high the cloud is shining gold
where Tabor's hill is rising, bold;
our Lord our God has glories shown
and all his realm to us made known.
I see the light stream through His face
who lived and died to give us grace;
in vestment pure and glowing white,
he gives his truth to faith and sight.
The law prepared that we might wait
and know the one to change our fate;
the prophets hoped and showed the way
that we might find our Lord this day.
Lord, I, a fool, am bowed in heart;
I do not know my place or part,
but, if you will, my heart is yours
through every age where love endures.
Though less than nill I have to give,
my Lord, take all my life to live,
take all my death, for you to die,
and grant this light to see you by.
Let holy fate fall where it falls:
My flaw is clear; I hope, I lose,
I fall for easy ruse. I know
the dawn, its light, that, slow,
upon the brightning road will flow, and tread
across the deepening red;
my hope is real; my hope is small.
The heart is made of all its woe.
I know this hurt, its slow, tight mesh,
the cold of steel on flesh,
the jostle thick with thresh and toss,
the awful ache of loss.
I know -- yet I do not recall.
Let holy fate fall where it falls.