BEHOLD, O Lord! these unhewn stones
Piled rudely for thy mighty towers,
And I, condemned to work alone,
Possessor of few fleeting hours;
Not on the carven cornices
Shall ever mark of mine belong,
But I might place the lowest range--
Then for my labour make me strong!

I shall not live when this dear race
Shall widen to its nobler scope;
Nor dare I say I know my soul
Will see fulfilment of its hope;
But if I fail this faith to win,
Nor think the crown reserved for me,
If these few days be all Thou giv'st,
Help them to pass in serving Thee!

I know not of myself, my soul
Is stranger to me than the smile
On some beloved face; no lights
In future days these days beguile;
I only know I live to learn,
To love, to struggle, to endure--
When all my sight is swathed in mist,
Thou and my work alone are sure!

But art not Thou enough! unseen,
Unproved, unknown, but ever near;
The days are interfused with Thee,
And every day in Thee is dear!
Lord of my life! I dare to live
Where thousands of thy children be,
Living to live by Thy dear power,
And if I sleep to sleep in Thee!

Like berries on some inner bough,
Which swell, grow red, and straight decay,
Finding for beauty no employ,
Till all their fitness fades away;
Yet join some elemental force
And fatten soil for other trees--
How often seem our human lives
Useless, or useful but as these.

Whether, of earthly children, sires,
Men toil and store--or whether, crossed
In that most ardent of desires,
The current of their lives seem lost,
Whether the task be duly done,
Or the strong word unnoticed fall,
God counts His workmen one by one,
And surely, too, He uses all.

No life is lost, no hope is vain,
No prayer without a sequent deed,
He turns all seeming loss to gain,
And finds a soil for every seed.
Some fleeting glance He doth endow,
He sanctifies some casual word,
Unconscious gifts His children show,
For all is potent with the Lord.

We only see the outer thing,
The secret heart of force ignore,
Lo! from some harsh ungenial Spring
Full Summer blossoms forth the more!
Deep lie the channels of God's grace,
Deep lies the mystery of use,
He setteth in the chiefest place
That stone the builders all refuse.

The links of time are counted up,
And all were nought if one were broken;
He knows the drops in every cup,
No word remains as if unspoken;
We do not guess what we achieve,
Dim is the ending of our course,
Our faintest impulse may receive
The aid of supernatural force.

Half blind amidst the stir of things,
But safe in following out the law,
We know not what a moment brings,
Nor which way blows the burning straw.
When earth's great heart hath ceased to beat,
And all is finished as foreshown,
Marshalled before the Judgment Seat,
Then shall we know as we are known.

Lord! If on earth Thou hast a Church,
And dost with fulness dwell therein,
Let me not wander past the porch,
And dwell forlorn in outer sin.
But whether it be straitly built,
Or, wide as all the world, embrace
Each soul that hates Thy hated guilt,
And watches for Thy quickening grace;--

Wherever Thine appointed fold
Doth like the gates of Morning stand,
And, flinging back its bars of gold,
Show glimpses of the heavenly land--
Oh! thither guide my wandering feet,
And grant me sight, and keep me strong,
That, wrapt in Thy communion sweet,
I fail not from Thy saints among.

So, stable in my inner mind,
With peace at heart whate'er befall,
May I abide amidst my kind;
Accepting, trusting, using all
Which Thou dost in Thy love decree,
And by Thy will before me cast;
Til the true life bestowed by Thee
Shall be by Thee resumed at last.