The speeding cars upon the city loop,
self-moved but not self-moving, make their turns
and, heedless of the world, still make their laps
while time is lost and stormy sky is torn.
Can men who do not love the falling rain
take joy in life or walk the roads of grace?
So many human hearts will only run
on tar and stone, and never on wet grass;
they know no tempo but the running race,
and never meet another but to pass.
How can such people feel their hearts upraise?
Or know, not humming motor, but true peace?
But, as to far Damascus, still these streets
lead on to heaven's door with hurry straight.
Creator of this ever-rolling orb,
the earth your footstool, all of space your robe,
as you have made this cosmos come to be,
so bring the waywardness of man to bay!
And work in me, most holy Lamb of God,
a power born of heaven, aimed toward good,
as you by greatest mercy have ransom brought
to all our race, and hope of glory bright.
And music Spirit, with your winds inspire
the souls of we who pray, and do not spare
one moment of delay, but to all who fear
descend in might and love and heaven's fire.
O God, three-personed, one in substance true,
redeem your slave-sold people in their tears,
and as you give from each to each again,
so give to us, that we might Godhead gain
and, though not Gods by right or nature born,
in you we may be Gods, in grace you bring.