OW, still, unutterably weak,In human helplessness more helpless thanThe smallest of God's other creatures canBe left, I lie and do not speak.Walls rise and closeAround. No warning showsTo me, who am but blind, which wallWill shelter, and which one will fallAnd crush me in the dust,Not that I sinned, but that it must.Each hour, within my heart, some sweet hope dies.Each night the dead form liesOf some fair purpose which I could not save,Ready for day to carry out and hideIn a dishonored grave.My strongest willFinds stronger fate stand side by sideWith it, its utmost efforts conquering stillWith such swift might, the dust in which I lieScarce quivers with my struggle and my pain,Scarce echoes with my cry.Grief comes and passes by,And Joy comes hand in handWith Grief, each bearing crowns with buds of snow,Both laying crowns upon my head.Soon as the buds are open, it were vainTo try to separate or understand—No sense of mine can feel or know—Which flowers the hand of Joy has shed,And which the hand of Pain.Therefore I do not choose;Fearing, desiring equally from each,I wait. I do not dare refuse.Only one sound can reachMe where I lie, can stir my veins,Or make me lift my eyes.That sound drops from the skies,A still small voice,—round it great silence lies:"Not one of all these things remains.Thou shalt arise!"
Somewhere on earth,Marked, sealed, mine from its hour of birth,A stairway lies, down which I shall descend,And pass through a dark gate, which at my name,And at no other, will swing back and close.Where lies this stairway no man knows,No man has even wondered. Only IRemember it continually.Spring never came,Her grasses setting, that I did not bendLow in the fields, saying: "LendBut part trust, O Summer! Many graves,Before this sweet grass wavesHalf grown, must open. Ah! will reapers reapHarvest from my low resting-placeThis year? Or will the withered sods and ILifeless together lie,With silent, upturned face,Before the autumn winds sweep by?"And when the winter snows lie deep,I think: "How hard to find,Just now, those hidden stairs that windFor me." The time must near the end.Perhaps for those I leave behind,More sad to see the snow. But its pure white,I think, would shed a little light,And stretch like alabaster skiesAbove the stairway dark I must descend,That I may rise.
Somewhere on earth,Marked, sealed, mine from its hour of birth,There lies a shining stone,My own.Perhaps it still is in the quarry's hold.Oh! Pine Tree, wave in winter's coldSwifter above it; in the summer's heatDrop spices on it, thick and sweet;Quicken its patient crystals' growth.Oh! be not loth,Quarry and Pine,And stir of birds in the still North,And suns that shine,—
Give up my smooth white stone! Hasten it forth.My soul in bondage lies.I must arise.Perhaps upon the shining stone,My own,Even to-day the hammers ring.The workman does not sing.He is a lover and he has a child;To him a gravestone is a fearful thing.He has not smiledSince under his strong hands the white stone came,Though he is slow and dull,And could not give a nameTo thoughts which fill his heart too fullOf prophecy and pain.O Workman, sing! See how the white dust fliesAnd glistens in the sunny air.No grain but counts;Some fair spot grows more fairBy it, each moment. In the skies,My moment must be near.Workman, there is on earth no loss, no waste.Sing loud, and make all haste;I must arise.
Perhaps even now the shining stone,My own,Stands ready,—arch and base,And chiselled lines, and spaceFor name all done: and yesterdaySome sorrowing ones stood round it silentlyAnd looked at it through tears,But passed it by,
Saying, with trembling lips: "No, no!For stone more beautiful than this we seek.Sculptor, dost thou not knowWhat lines will make the marble showA deeper grief?" Ah! mourners, speakIn lower voice. Ye do not seeWhat presence guardsThe stone. More than ye dream retardsYour will. The stone waits there for me.My soul in bondage liesI must arise.
Then, when I have descended, and the stoneAbove the stairway has been set,The tears of those who reckoned me their ownA little space will wetThe grass; but soon all saddened daysCount up to comforted and busy years:All living men must go their waysAnd leave their dead behind. The tideless lightOf sun and moon and stars,—silence of nightAnd noise of day, and whirling of the greatRound world itself,—yea,All things which are and are not work to layThe dead away.The crumbling of the stone, more late,The sinking of the little moundTo unmarked level, where with noisy soundRoam idle and unwitting feet,Least tokens are and smallest partOf the oblivion completeWhich wraps a human grave;And unto me, the hour when the last heartHas ceased to saveMy memory, the yearThat sees my white stone lying low,The century that sees the grave mound grow,Free of my dust, to solid earth again,Made ready for new dead,—all these will beAlike to me,Alike uncounted will remain.Their sound I shall not hearAs I arise.They mark no moments in the skiesThrough which I mount. As constant asGod's law,Bearing all joy and grief my first years saw,Even my babyhood,—Bearing all evil and all good.Of ripest age,-nowiseEscaping and nowise forgetting oneOf all the actions done,—And bearing all that liesIn utmost law for me,—all God's great will,All God's great mercy,—stillI shall arise.
The fool asks, "With what flesh? in joy or pain?Helped or unhelped? and lonely, or againSurrounded by our earthly friends?"I know not; and I glory that I doNot know that for Eternity's great endsGod counted me as worthy of such trust,That I need not be told.I holdThat if it beLess than enough to any soul to knowItself immortal, immortalityIn all its boundless spaces will not findA place designedSo small, so low,That to a fitting home such soul can go.Out to the earthward brinkOf that great tideless seaLight from Christ's garments streams.Cowards who fear to tread such beamsThe angels can but pity when they sink.Believing thus, I joy although I lie in dust.I joy, not that I ask or choose,But simply that I must.I love and fear not; and I cannot lose,One instant, this great certainty of peace.Long as God ceases not, I cannot cease;I must arise.
RESURGAM
"And Joy comes hand in handWith Grief, each bearing crowns with bids of snow.Both laying crowns upon my head."
OW, still, unutterably weak, In human helplessness more helpless than The smallest of God's other creatures can Be left, I lie and do not speak. Walls rise and close Around. No warning showsTo me, who am but blind, which wallWill shelter, and which one will fall And crush me in the dust, Not that I sinned, but that it must.Each hour, within my heart, some sweet hope dies.Each night the dead form liesOf some fair purpose which I could not save, Ready for day to carry out and hide In a dishonored grave. My strongest willFinds stronger fate stand side by sideWith it, its utmost efforts conquering stillWith such swift might, the dust in which I lieScarce quivers with my struggle and my pain, Scarce echoes with my cry. Grief comes and passes by, And Joy comes hand in handWith Grief, each bearing crowns with buds of snow,Both laying crowns upon my head. Soon as the buds are open, it were vainTo try to separate or understand—No sense of mine can feel or know—Which flowers the hand of Joy has shed, And which the hand of Pain. Therefore I do not choose; Fearing, desiring equally from each, I wait. I do not dare refuse. Only one sound can reachMe where I lie, can stir my veins, Or make me lift my eyes. That sound drops from the skies,A still small voice,—round it great silence lies:"Not one of all these things remains. Thou shalt arise!"