XX.

Lord, I have spoken a poor parable,

In which I would have said thy name alone

Is the one secret lying in Truth's well,

Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone,

Thy face the heart of every flower on earth,

Its vision the one hope; for every moan

Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth

Of little children seated on thy knee!

O human God! I laugh with sacred mirth

To think how all the laden shall go free;

For, though the vision tarry, in healing ruth

One morn the eyes that shone in Galilee

Will dawn upon them, full of grace and truth,

And thy own love — the vivifying core

Of every love in heart of age or youth,

Of every hope that sank‘ neath burden sore!