Faith, untrained to works, is nought!
Idle are the soundest creeds;
Christian faith is holy thought-
Christian merit, righteous deeds.
If the purest doubting bow,
Struggling after heavenly bliss,
Shall the wretch converted now
Claim its joys as surely his?
As the growing tree takes root,
Springing, blooming, bearing; so
Do the leaves, the flowers, the fruit
In the soil of virtue grow.
Truth is gentle in its sway,
Calm and still its onward stream,
And the spark which shines to-day
Kindles a to-morrow's beam.
'Tis no torrent from a height,
'Tis no tempest's rugged shock,
'Tis no flash of fatal light
Scorching fields and blasting rock.
Soft its steps, and mild its mien,
As when twilight's urn above
Pours on earth's awakening scene
More and more of light and love.