THE INNER PASSION

There is a Master in my heart

To whom, though oft against my will,

I bring the songs I sing apart

And strive to think that they fulfil

His silent law, within my heart.

But He is blind to my desires,

And deaf to all that I would plead:

He tests my truth at purer fires

And shames my purple with His need.

He claims my deeds, not my desires.

And often when my comrades praise,

I sadden, for He turns from me!

But, sometimes, when they blame, I raise

Mine eyes to His, and in them see

A tenderness too deep for praise.

He is not to be bought with gold,

Or lured by thornless crowns of fame;

But when some rebel thought hath sold

Him to dishonour and to shame,

And my heart's Pilate cries, “Behold,”

“Behold the Man,” I know Him then;

And all those wild thronged clamours die

In my heart's judgment hall again,

Or if it ring with “Crucify!”

Some few are faithful even then.

Some few sad thoughts,— one bears His cross;

To that dark Calvary of my pride;

One stands far off and mourns His loss,

And one poor thief on either side

Hangs on his own unworthy cross.

And one — O, truth in ancient guise!—

Rails, and one bids him cease alway,

And the God turns His hungering eyes

On that poor thought with, “Thou, this day,

Shalt sing, shalt sing, in Paradise.”