Verse > John Greenleaf Whittier > The Poetical Works in Four Volumes
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892).  The Poetical Works in Four Volumes.  1892.
Religious Poems
Our Master
IMMORTAL Love, forever full,
  Forever flowing free,
Forever shared, forever whole,
  A never-ebbing sea!
Our outward lips confess the name        5
  All other names above;
Love only knoweth whence it came
  And comprehendeth love.
Blow, winds of God, awake and blow
  The mists of earth away!        10
Shine out, O Light Divine, and show
  How wide and far we stray!
Hush every lip, close every book,
  The strife of tongues forbear;
Why forward reach, or backward look,        15
  For love that clasps like air?
We may not climb the heavenly steeps
  To bring the Lord Christ down:
In vain we search the lowest deeps,
  For Him no depths can drown.        20
Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape,
  The lineaments restore
Of Him we know in outward shape
  And in the flesh no more.
He cometh not a king to reign;        25
  The world’s long hope is dim;
The weary centuries watch in vain
  The clouds of heaven for Him.
Death comes, life goes; the asking eye
  And ear are answerless;        30
The grave is dumb, the hollow sky
  Is sad with silentness.
The letter fails, and systems fall,
  And every symbol wanes;
The Spirit over-brooding all        35
  Eternal Love remains.
And not for signs in heaven above
  Or earth below they look,
Who know with John His smile of love,
  With Peter His rebuke.        40
In joy of inward peace, or sense
  Of sorrow over sin,
He is His own best evidence,
  His witness is within.
No fable old, nor mythic lore,        45
  Nor dream of bards and seers,
No dead fact stranded on the shore
  Of the oblivious years;—
But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
  A present help is He;        50
And faith has still its Olivet,
  And love its Galilee.
The healing of His seamless dress
  Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life’s throng and press,        55
  And we are whole again.
Through Him the first fond prayers are said
  Our lips of childhood frame,
The last low whispers of our dead
  Are burdened with His name.        60
Our Lord and Master of us all!
  Whate’er our name or sign,
We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,
  We test our lives by Thine.
Thou judgest us; Thy purity        65
  Doth all our lusts condemn;
The love that draws us nearer Thee
  Is hot with wrath to them.
Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight;
  And, naked to Thy glance,        70
Our secret sins are in the light
  Of Thy pure countenance.
Thy healing pains, a keen distress
  Thy tender light shines in;
Thy sweetness is the bitterness,        75
  Thy grace the pang of sin.
Yet, weak and blinded though we be,
  Thou dost our service own;
We bring our varying gifts to Thee,
  And Thou rejectest none.        80
To Thee our full humanity,
  Its joys and pains, belong;
The wrong of man to man on Thee
  Inflicts a deeper wrong.
Who hates, hates Thee, who loves becomes        85
  Therein to Thee allied;
All sweet accords of hearts and homes
  In Thee are multiplied.
Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine,
  Within our earthly sod,        90
Most human and yet most divine,
  The flower of man and God!
O Love! O Life! Our faith and sight
  Thy presence maketh one
As through transfigured clouds of white        95
  We trace the noon-day sun.
So, to our mortal eyes subdued,
  Flesh-veiled, but not concealed,
We know in Thee the fatherhood
  And heart of God revealed.        100
We faintly hear, we dimly see,
  In differing phrase we pray;
But, dim or clear, we own in Thee
  The Light, the Truth, the Way!
The homage that we render Thee        105
  Is still our Father’s own;
No jealous claim or rivalry
  Divides the Cross and Throne.
To do Thy will is more than praise,
  As words are less than deeds,        110
And simple trust can find Thy ways
  We miss with chart of creeds.
No pride of self Thy service hath,
  No place for me and mine;
Our human strength is weakness, death        115
  Our life, apart from Thine.
Apart from Thee all gain is loss,
  All labor vainly done;
The solemn shadow of Thy Cross
  Is better than the sun.        120
Alone, O Love ineffable!
  Thy saving name is given;
To turn aside from Thee is hell,
  To walk with Thee is heaven!
How vain, secure in all Thou art,        125
  Our noisy championship!
The sighing of the contrite heart
  Is more than flattering lip.
Not Thine the bigot’s partial plea,
  Nor Thine the zealot’s ban;        130
Thou well canst spare a love of Thee
  Which ends in hate of man.
Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,
  What may Thy service be?—
Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,        135
  But simply following Thee.
We bring no ghastly holocaust,
  We pile no graven stone;
He serves thee best who loveth most
  His brothers and Thy own.        140
Thy litanies, sweet offices
  Of love and gratitude;
Thy sacramental liturgies,
  The joy of doing good.
In vain shall waves of incense drift        145
  The vaulted nave around,
In vain the minster turret lift
  Its brazen weights of sound.
The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells,
  Thy inward altars raise;        150
Its faith and hope Thy canticles,
  And its obedience praise!


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