The thought of God, the thought of Thee,
Who liest in my heart,
And yet beyond imagined space
Outstretched and present art,
The thought of Thee, above, below,
Around me and within,
Is more to me than health and wealth,
Or love of kith and kin.
The thought of God is like the tree
Beneath whose shade I lie,
And watch the fleets of snowy clouds
Sail o’er the silent sky.
’Tis like that soft invading light,
Which in all darkness shines,
The thread that through life’s sombre web
In golden pattern twines.
It is a thought which ever makes
Life’s sweetest smiles from tears,
And is a daybreak to our hopes,
A sunset to our fears;
One while it bids the tears to flow,
Then wipes them from the eyes,
Most often fills our souls with joy,
And always sanctifies.
Within a thought so great, our souls
Little and modest grow,
And, by its vastness awed, we learn
The art of walking slow.
The wild flower on the messy ground
Scarce bends its pliant form,
When overhead the autumnal wood
Is thundering like a storm.
So is it with our humbled souls
Down in the thought of God,
Scarce conscious in their sober peace
Of the wild storms abroad.
To think of Thee is almost prayer,
And is outspoken praise;
And pain can even passive thoughts
To actual worship raise.
O Lord! I live always in pain,
My life’s sad undersong,
Pain in itself not hard to bear,
But hard to bear so long.
Little sometimes weighs more than much,
When it has no relief;
A joyless life is worse to bear
Than one of active grief.
And yet, O Lord! a suffering life
One grand ascent may dare;
Penance, not self-imposed, can make
The whole of life a prayer.
All murmurs lie inside Thy Will
Which are to Thee addressed;
To suffer for Thee is our work,
To think of Thee our rest.
_____
By Frederick W. Faber (1814-1863)
