ANTISTROPHE 6

Thou that wast on their fathers dead

As effluent God effused and shed,

Heaven to be handled, hope made flesh,

Break for them now time's iron mesh;

Give them thyself for hand and head,

Thy breath for life, thy love for bread,

Thy thought for spirit to refresh,

Thy bitterness to pierce and sting,

Thy sweetness for a healing spring.

Be to them knowledge, strength, life, light,

Thou to whose feet the centuries cling

And in the wide warmth of thy wing

Seek room and rest as birds by night,

O thou the kingless people's king,

To whom the lips of silence sing,

Called by thy name of thanksgiving

Freedom, and by thy name of might

Justice, and by thy secret name

Love; the same need is on the same

Men, be the same God in their sight!

From this their hour of bloody tears

Their praise goes up into thine ears,

Their bruised lips clothe thy name with praises,

The song of thee their crushed voice raises,

Their grief seeks joy for psalms to borrow,

With tired feet seeks her through time's mazes

Where each day's blood leaves pale the morrow,

And from their eyes in thine there gazes

A spirit other far than sorrow —

A soul triumphal, white and whole

And single, that salutes thy soul.