In the still air the music lies unheard;
In the rough marble beauty hides unseen:
To make the music and the beauty, needs
The master’s touch, the sculptor’s chisel keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand;
Let not the music that is in us...
Thy thoughts are here, my God,
Expressed in words divine,
The utterance of heavenly lips
In every sacred line.
Across the ages they
Have reached us from afar,
Than the bright gold more golden they,
Purer than purest star.
Beyond the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon;
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
...
