At the beautiful gate and other songs of faith / Lucy Larcom [electronic text]

A CANTICLE IN WAR.

(A. n. 1863.)

GLORY to Thee, Father of all the Immortal, Ever belongs: We bring Thee from our watch by the grave's portal Nothing but songs. Though every wave of trouble has gone o'er us, — Though in the fire We have lost treasures time cannot restore us, — Though all desire That made life beautiful fades out in sorrow — Though the strange path Winding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow, No comfort hath, — Though blackness gathers round us on all faces, And we can see By the red war-flash but Love's empty places, — Glory to Thee!

For, underneath the crash and roar of battle, The deafening roll That calls men off to butchery like cattle, Soul after soul; Under the horrid sound of chaos seething In blind, hot strife, We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathing A better life Into the air of our long-sickened nation; A muffled hymn; The star-sung prelude of a new creation; Suffusions dim, — The bursting upward of a stifled glory, That shall arise To light new pages in the world's great story For happier eyes.

If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning, Songs be not found, Yet wilt Thou know our life's unuttered meaning: In its deep ground, As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenched praises, Waiting to bring Incense to Thee along thought's barren mazes When Thou send'st spring.

Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder, While a hushed land Hears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder, That Truth is grand As life must be; that neither man nor nation May soil thy throne

With a soul's life-blood — horrible oblation! Nor quick be shown That Thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nurses Were Rate and Wrong; That trees so vile must drop back fruit in curses Bitter and strong.

Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smother Ourselves in sin; Sending Pain's messengers fast on each other Us thence to win! Praise for the scourging under which we languish, So torn, so sore! And save us strength, if yet uncleansed by anguish, To welcome more. Life were not life to us, could they be fables, — Justice and Right: Scathe crime with lightning, till we see the tables Of Law burn bright!

Glory to Thee, whose glory and whose pleasure Must be in good! By Thee the mysteries we cannot measure Are understood. With the abysses of Thyself above us, Our sins below, That Thou dost look from Thy pure heaven and love us, Enough to know. Enough to lay our praises on Thy bosom — Praises fresh-grown

Out of our depths, dark root and open blossom, Up to Thy throne. When choking tears make our Hosannas falter, The music free! Oh, keep clear voices singing at Thy altar, Glory to Thee!