In War Time, and Other Poems/Andrew Rykman's Prayer

Andrew Rykman's dead and gone;

You can see his leaning slate

In the graveyard, and thereon

Read his name and date.

"Trust is truer than our fears,"

Runs the legend through the moss,

"Gain is not in added years,

Nor in death is loss."

Still the feet that thither trod,

All the friendly eyes are dim;

Only Nature, now, and God

Have a care for him.

There the dews of quiet fall,

Singing birds and soft winds stray:

Shall the tender Heart of all

Be less kind than they?

What he was and what he is

They who ask may haply find,

If they read this prayer of his

Which he left behind. .   .    .    . Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare

Shape in words a mortal's prayer!

Prayer, that, when my day is done,

And I see its setting sun,

Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,

Sink beneath the horizon's rim,--

When this ball of rock and clay

Crumbles from my feet away,

And the solid shores of sense

Melt into the vague immense,

Father! I may come to Thee

Even with the beggar's plea,

As the poorest of Thy poor,

With my needs, and nothing more.

Not as one who seeks his home

With a step assured I come;

Still behind the tread I hear

Of my life-companion, Fear;

Still a shadow deep and vast

From my westering feet is cast,

Wavering, doubtful, undefined,

Never shapen nor outlined

From myself the fear has grown,

And the shadow is my own.

Yet, O Lord, through all a sense

Of Thy tender providence

Stays my failing heart on Thee,

And confirms the feeble knee;

And, at times, my worn feet press

Spaces of cool quietness,

Lilied whiteness shone upon

Not by light of moon or sun.

Hours there be of inmost calm,

Broken but by grateful psalm,

When I love Thee more than fear Thee,

And Thy blessed Christ seems near me,

With forgiving look, as when

He beheld the Magdalen.

Well I know that all things move

To the spheral rhythm of love,--

That to Thee, O Lord of all!

Nothing can of chance befall

Child and seraph, mote and star,

Well Thou knowest what we are

Through Thy vast creative plan

Looking, from the worm to man,

There is pity in Thine eyes,

But no hatred nor surprise.

Not in blind caprice of will,

Not in cunning sleight of skill,

Not for show of power, was wrought

Nature's marvel in Thy thought.

Never careless hand and vain

Smites these chords of joy and pain;

No immortal selfishness

Plays the game of curse and bless

Heaven and earth are witnesses

That Thy glory goodness is.

Not for sport of mind and force

Hast Thou made Thy universe,

But as atmosphere and zone

Of Thy loving heart alone.

Man, who walketh in a show,

Sees before him, to and fro,

Shadow and illusion go;

All things flow and fluctuate,

Now contract and now dilate.

In the welter of this sea,

Nothing stable is but Thee;

In this whirl of swooning trance,

Thou alone art permanence;

All without Thee only seems,

All beside is choice of dreams.

Never yet in darkest mood

Doubted I that Thou wast good,

Nor mistook my will for fate,

Pain of sin for heavenly hate,--

Never dreamed the gates of pearl

Rise from out the burning marl,

Or that good can only live

Of the bad conservative,

And through counterpoise of hell

Heaven alone be possible.

For myself alone I doubt;

All is well, I know, without;

I alone the beauty mar,

I alone the music jar.

Yet, with hands by evil stained,

And an ear by discord pained,

I am groping for the keys

Of the heavenly harmonies;

Still within my heart I bear

Love for all things good and fair.

Hands of want or souls in pain

Have not sought my door in vain;

I have kept my fealty good

To the human brotherhood;

Scarcely have I asked in prayer

That which others might not share.

I, who hear with secret shame

Praise that paineth more than blame,

Rich alone in favors lent,

Virtuous by accident,

Doubtful where I fain would rest,

Frailest where I seem the best,

Only strong for lack of test,--

What am I, that I should press

Special pleas of selfishness,

Coolly mounting into heaven

On my neighbor unforgiven?

Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised,

Comes a saint unrecognized;

Never fails my heart to greet

Noble deed with warmer beat;

Halt and maimed, I own not less

All the grace of holiness;

Nor, through shame or self-distrust,

Less I love the pure and just.

Lord, forgive these words of mine

What have I that is not Thine?

Whatsoe'er I fain would boast

Needs Thy pitying pardon most.

Thou, O Elder Brother! who

In Thy flesh our trial knew,

Thou, who hast been touched by these

Our most sad infirmities,

Thou alone the gulf canst span

In the dual heart of man,

And between the soul and sense

Reconcile all difference,

Change the dream of me and mine

For the truth of Thee and Thine,

And, through chaos, doubt, and strife,

Interfuse Thy calm of life.

Haply, thus by Thee renewed,

In Thy borrowed goodness good,

Some sweet morning yet in God's

Dim, veonian periods,

Joyful I shall wake to see

Those I love who rest in Thee,

And to them in Thee allied

Shall my soul be satisfied.

Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me

What the future life may be.

Other lips may well be bold;

Like the publican of old,

I can only urge the plea,

"Lord, be merciful to me!"

Nothing of desert I claim,

Unto me belongeth shame.

Not for me the, crowns of gold,

Palms, and harpings manifold;

Not for erring eye and feet

Jasper wall and golden street.

What thou wilt, O Father, give I

All is gain that I receive.

If my voice I may not raise

In the elders' song of praise,

If I may not, sin-defiled,

Claim my birthright as a child,

Suffer it that I to Thee

As an hired servant be;

Let the lowliest task be mine,

Grateful, so the work be Thine;

Let me find the humblest place

In the shadow of Thy grace

Blest to me were any spot

Where temptation whispers not.

If there be some weaker one,

Give me strength to help him on

If a blinder soul there be,

Let me guide him nearer Thee.

Make my mortal dreams come true

With the work I fain would do;

Clothe with life the weak intent,

Let me be the thing I meant;

Let me find in Thy employ

Peace that dearer is than joy;

Out of self to love be led

And to heaven acclimated,

Until all things sweet and good

Seem my natural habitude. .   .    .    . So we read the prayer of him

Who, with John of Labadie,

Trod, of old, the oozy rim

Of the Zuyder Zee.

Thus did Andrew Rykman pray.

Are we wiser, better grown,

That we may not, in our day,

Make his prayer our own?