AT THE GATE

Thy kingdom here?

Lord, can it be?

Searching and seeking everywhere

For many a year,

“Thy kingdom come” has been my prayer.

Was that dear kingdom all the while so near?

Blinded and dull

With selfish sin,

Have I been sitting at the gates

Called Beautiful,

Where Thy fair angel stands and waits,

With hand upon the lock to let me in?

Was I the wall

Which barred the way,

Darkening the glory of Thy grace,

Hiding the ray

Which, shining out as from Thy very face,

Had shown to other men the perfect day?

Was I the bar

Which shut me out

From the full joyance which they taste

Whose spirits are

Within Thy Paradise embraced,—

Thy blessed Paradise, which seemed so far?

The vision swells:

I seem to catch

Celestial breezes, rustling low,

The asphodels,

Where, singing softly ever to and fro,

Moves each fair saint who in Thy presence dwells.

Let me not sit

Another hour,

Idly awaiting what is mine to win,

Blinded in wit,

Lord Jesus, rend these walls of self and sin;

Beat down the gate, that I may enter it.