| I DID not think, I did not strive, | |
| The deep peace burnt my me alive; | |
| The bolted door had broken in, | |
| I knew that I had done with sin. | |
| I knew that Christ had given me birth | 5 |
| To brother all the souls on earth, | |
| And every bird and every beast | |
| Should share the crumbs broke at the feast. | |
| |
| O glory of the lighted mind. | |
| How dead I’d been, how dumb, how blind. | 10 |
| The station brook, to my new eyes, | |
| Was babbling out of Paradise, | |
| The waters rushing from the rain | |
| Were singing Christ has risen again. | |
| I thought all earthly creatures knelt | 15 |
| From rapture of the joy I felt. | |
| The narrow station-wall’s brick ledge, | |
| The wild hop withering in the hedge, | |
| The lights in huntsman’s upper story | |
| Were parts of an eternal glory, | 20 |
| Were God’s eternal garden flowers. | |
| I stood in bliss at this for hours. | |
| |
| O glory of the lighted soul. | |
| The dawn came up on Bradlow Knoll, | |
| The dawn with glittering on the grasses, | 25 |
| The dawn which pass and never passes. | |
| |
| ‘It’s dawn,’ I said, ‘And chimney’s smoking, | |
| And all the blessed fields are soaking. | |
| It’s dawn, and there’s an engine shunting; | |
| And hounds, for huntsman’s going hunting. | 30 |
| It’s dawn, and I must wander north | |
| Along the road Christ led me forth.’… | |
| |
| O wet red swathe of earth laid bare, | |
| O truth, O strength, O gleaming share, | |
| O patient eyes that watch the goal, | 35 |
| O ploughman of the sinner’s soul. | |
| O Jesus, drive the coulter deep | |
| To plough my living man from sleep. | |
| Slow up the hill the plough team plod, | |
| Old Callow at the task of God, | 40 |
| Helped by man’s wit, helped by the brute | |
| Turning a stubborn clay to fruit, | |
| Hid eyes for ever on some sign | |
| To help him plough a perfect line. | |
| At top of rise the plough team stopped, | 45 |
| The fore-horse bent his head and cropped; | |
| Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle, | |
| The lean reins gather through the cringle, | |
| The figures move against the sky, | |
| The clay wave breaks as they go by. | 50 |
| I kneeled there in the muddy fallow, | |
| I knew that Christ was there with Callow, | |
| That Christ was standing there with me, | |
| That Christ had taught me what to be, | |
| That I should plough, and as I ploughed | 55 |
| My Saviour Christ would sing aloud, | |
| And as I drove the clods apart | |
| Christ would be ploughing in my heart, | |
| Through rest-harrow and bitter roots, | |
| Through all my bad life’s rotten fruits. | 60 |
| |
| O Christ who holds the open gate, | |
| O Christ who drives the furrow straight, | |
| O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter | |
| Of holy white birds flying after, | |
| Lo, all my heart’s field red and torn, | 65 |
| And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, | |
| The young green corn divinely springing, | |
| The young green corn forever singing; | |
| And when the field is fresh and fair | |
| Thy blessèd feet shall glitter there, | 70 |
| And we will walk the weeded field, | |
| And tell the golden harvest’s yield, | |
| The corn that makes the holy bread | |
| By which the soul of man is fed, | |
| The holy bread, the food unpriced, | 75 |
| Thy everlasting mercy, Christ. | |
