Canticle de Profundis

GLORY to Thee, Father of all the Immortal,Ever belongs:We bring Thee from our watch by the grave's portalNothing but songs.Though every wave of trouble has gone o'er us,—Though in the fireWe have lost treasures time cannot restore us,—Though all desireThat made life beautiful fades out in sorrow;—Though the strange pathWinding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow,No comfort hath;—Though blackness gathers round us on all faces,And we can seeBy the red war-flash but Love's empty places;—Glory to Thee!

For, underneath the crash and roar of battle,The deafening rollThat calls men off to butchery like cattle,Soul after soul,—Under the horrid sound of chaos seethingIn blind, hot strife,We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathingA better lifeInto 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 ariseTo light new pages in the world's great storyFor happier eyes.

If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning,Songs be not found,Yet wilt Thou know our life's unuttered meaningIn its deep ground,As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenched praises,Waiting to bringIncense to Thee along thought's barren mazesWhen Thou send'st spring.Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder,While a hushed landHears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder,That Truth is grandAs life must be; that neither man nor nationMay soil thy throneWith a soul's life-blood—horrible oblation!—Nor quick be shownThat thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nursesWere Hate and Wrong;That trees so vile must drop back fruit in cursesBitter and strong.

Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smotherOurselves in sin;Sending Pain's messengers fast on each otherUs 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 tablesOf Law burn bright!Glory to Thee, whose glory and pleasureMust be in good!By Thee the mysteries we cannot measureAre 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-grownOut of our depths, dark root and open blossom,Up to thy throne.When choking tears make our Hosannas falter,The music free!O keep clear voices singing at Thy altar,Glory to Thee!