Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE THOUGHTS OF GOD, by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL Poet's Biography First Line: Thy thoughts, o god! O theme divine Last Line: "the lord himself, jehovah, thinketh upon me!" Subject(s): God | ||||||||
THY thoughts, O God! O theme Divine! Except Thy Spirit in my darkness shine, And make it light, And overshadow me With stilling might, And touch my lips that I may speak of Thee, -- How shall I soar To thoughts of Thy thoughts? and how dare to write Of Thine? Thou understandest mine Far off and long before. Thou searchest, knowest, compassest! Thy hand is laid Upon me. Whither shall I flee From Omnipresence and Omniscience? If I fly To heaven, Thou art there also! If I take The wings of morning, and my dwelling make In the uttermost parts of the great sea, Even there Thy hand shall lead me, Thy right hand Shall hold me. If I say Surely the night Shall cover me, it shall be light About me. Yea, the shade Of darkness hideth not from Thee, Night shineth as the day; The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee. Thee I will praise: for I am fearfully And wonderfully made. My substance was not hid from Thee When I was made in secret, curiously wrought And yet imperfect. Then Thine eyes did see me. In Thy book Were all my members written, when Not one of them was into being brought. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, Too excellent, too high. Yet 'tis but one Keen ray of Thy great sun Touching an atom in a dusty nook! One ray! while others traverse depths profound Of possible chaos; and illume The boundless bound Of space; and vivify worlds all unguessed, To whom Our farthest eastern spark, Caught by the mightiest telescope that ever pierced the dark, Is farthest west. One ray! while others overflow The countless hosts of angels with celestial blaze; With still diviner glow, Flooding each heart with adoration sweet; And yet too glorious for the gaze Of seraphim, who cover face and feet With burning wings, While through the universe their "Holy, Holy," rings. Only one ray! Yet doth it come So close to us, so very near, Our inmost selves enfolding, Discerning, penetrating, -- we, beholding Its terrible brightness, well might fear, But for the glow Of known and trusted Love that pulseth warm below. And so The psalm ariseth, strong and clear, "How precious are Thy thoughts to me, O God! How great their sum!" Uncounted, marvellous, and very deep and broad, Unsearchable and high! Infinity Of holiest, mightiest mystery, That never sight Or tongue of mortal seer Could see or tell, That never flight Of flame-like spirits that in strength excel Hath reached! The very faith that brings us near Reveals new distances, new depths of light Unfathomed, -- seas of suns that never eye Created hath beheld, or ever can behold! What know we of God's thoughts? One word of gold A volume doth enfold. They are -- "not ours!" Ours? what are they? their value and their powers? So evanescent, that while thousands fleet Across the busy brain, Only a few remain To set their seal on memory's strange consistence. Of these, some worthless, some a life-regret, That we would fain forget; And very few are rich and great and sweet; And fewer still are lasting gain, And these most often born of pain, Or sprung from strong concussion into strong existence. What else? Even in their proudest strength so weak, So isolated and so rootless, So flowerless and so fruitless; -- We think, and dare not do, -- we think, and cannot speak! A thought alone is less than breath, Only the shudder of a living death. A thing of scorn, A formless embryo in chaos born. It must be seized with resolute grasp of will, With swiftness and with skill, And molded on life's anvil, ere it glow With any fire or force; And wrought with many a blow, And welded in the heat by toiling strength With many another, ere it go at length The humblest mission to fulfill. And then its tiny might Is not inherent, but alone dependent Upon the primal source And spring of power, First, Sole, Supreme, Transcendent! What else? So circumscribed in flight! Like bats in sunshine, striking helpless wings Against the shining things, That to their dazzled sight Appear not; hindered everywhere By unseen obstacles with puzzling pain. Or like the traveler, toiling long to gain An Alpine summit, white and fair, With far-extending view; but still withheld, And to the downward track with fainting step compelled By an intangible barrier; for the air Is all too rare, Too keenly pure For valley-dweller to endure. For thus our thoughts rebound From the Invisible-Infinite, on every side Hemmed ever round By the Impassable, that never mortal pinion Hath over-soared, that mocks at human pride, Imprisoned in its own supposed dominion. What else? So mingled, so impure; So interwoven with the threads of sin, Visible or invisible as the sight Is purged to see them in God's light; So subtle in their changeful forms, now dark, now bright; Such mystery of iniquity within, That we must loathe our very thoughts, but for the cure He hath devised, -- the blessed Tree The Lord hath shown us, that, cast in, can heal The fountain whence the bitter waters flow. Divinest remedy Whose power we feel, Whose grace we comprehend not, but we know. What else? So fallible, so full of errors, -- No certainty! In aught unproved and new, Treading volcanic soil o'er smothered terrors; Spectral misgivings rising to the view, As each step crushes through Some older crust of truth assumed. And this is all That human thoughts can do, Leaning on human strength and reason solely; Now wrong, now right, now false, now true, As may befall! And even the truest never reaching wholly Truth Absolute! That still our touch eludes, And vanishes in deeper depths when man intrudes Within her awful solitudes. Where many a string is mute And many a-wanting, all the rest Imperfectly attuned at best, -- We can but wait for truth of tone, For truth of modulation and expression, With lowliest confession Of utter powerlessness, content To trust His thoughts and not our own, -- Until the Maker of the instrument Shall tune it in another sphere, By His own perfect hand and ear. Now turn we from the darkness to the light, From dissonance to pure and full accord! "My thoughts are not as your thoughts, saith the Lord, Nor are your ways as My ways. As the height Of heaven above the earth, so are My ways, My thoughts, to yours; -- out of your sight, Above your praise." O oracle most grand! Thus teaching by sublimest negative What by a positive we could not understand, Or, understanding, live! And now, search fearlessly The imperfections and obscurity, The weakness and impurity, Of all our thoughts. On each discovery Write, "NOT as ours!" Then, in every line Behold God's glory shine In humbling yet sweet contrast, as we view His thoughts, Eternal, Strong, and Holy, Infinite, and True. And now, what have we of these thoughts of God, So high, so deep, so broad? What hath He given, and what are we receiving? A revelation Dim, pale, and cold Beside their hidden fire, yet gorgeously enscrolled Upon His wide Creation. He would not all withhold, His children in the silent darkness leaving; Nor would He overwhelm our heart And strike it dumb; And so He hath enfolded some In fair expressions for the eye and ear; Though faint yet clear; Such as our powers may apprehend in part. Thus hath He wrought The dazzling swiftness of the thought That veiled itself from mortal ken in light. And thus the myriad-handed might Of that from which the million-teeming ocean fell, No greater toil to Him, From silent depth to surfy rim, Than the small crystal drop which fills a rosy shell. And thus the Infinite Ideal Of perfect Beauty (only real In Him and through Him, pure conception Too exquisite for our perception) He hath translated; giving us such lines As we can trace In mountain grandeur and in lily grace, In sunset, cloudland, or soul-molded face; Such alphabets and signs As we, His little ones, may slowly, softly read, Supplying thus a deep, true-spirit need. What know we more? One thought He hath expressed In that great scheme Of which we, straining, catch a glimpse or gleam In light or shadow, -- scheme embracing all, Star-system cycles and the sparrow's fall, -- Scheme all-combining, wisest, grandest, best. We call it Providence. And each may deem Himself a tiny centre of that thought; For how mysteriously enwrought Are all our moments in its folds of might, Our own horizon ever bounding And yet not limiting, but still surrounding Our lives, while reaching far beyond our quickest sight. A thought of consummated harmony! Each life is one note in that symphony, Without which were its cadence incomplete: Yet each note complex, formed of many a reed; And each reed quivering with vibrations passing count, And each vibration blending In mystic trinities ascending Through weird harmonies that recede Into the unknown silences, or meet In clashing thrills unanalyzed, and mount In tangled music, yet all plain and clear Unto the Master's ear. O thought of consummated melody And perfect rhythm! though its mighty beat Transcend angelic faculty, And though its mighty bars May be the fall of worlds, the birth of stars, Its measure -- all eternity -- One echo, calm and sweet, Our clue to this great music of God's plan, Sounds on in ever-varying repeat -- Glory to God on high, peace and goodwill to man! What have we more? Scan we the blinding blaze Of the refulgent rays Outpoured from the Very Fount of Light? One thought of God in undiluted splendor, Flashed on our feeble gaze, Were never borne by mortal sight. He knew it, and He gave, In mercy tender, All that the soul unwittingly doth crave, All that it can receive. He robed In finite words the sparkles of His thought, The starry fire englobed In tiny spheres of language, shielding, softening thus The living, burning glory. And He brought Even to us This strange celestial treasure that no prayer Had asked of Him, no ear had heard, Nor heart of man conceived. He laid it there, Even at our feet, and said it was His Word. O mystery of tender grace! We find God's thoughts in human words enshrined, God's very life and love with ours entwined. All wonderingly from page to page we pass, Owning the darkening yet revealing glass; In every line we trace, In fair display, Prismatic atoms of the glorious bow Projected on the darkest cloud that e'er O'ergloomed the world that God had made so fair, The rainbow of His convenant; each one Reflecting perfectly a sevenfold ray, Shot from the sun Of His exceeding love, Strong and serene above, Upon a tremulous drop of tearful life below. One thought, His thought of thoughts, awakes our song Of endless thanks and marvelling adoration More than aught else. For Providence, Creation, All He hath made and all He doth prepare, Thoughts grand and wise and strong, Thoughts tender and most fair, Are pale beside the glory of Salvation, Redemption's gracious plan and glorious revelation: -- The focus where all rays unite; Each attribute arrayed in sevenfold light, Each adding splendor to the rest. The meeting blest, Of His great love and foreseen human woe Struck forth a mighty fire, that sent a glow Throughout the universe, -- an overflow To the dim confines that none know Save He who traced them, -- lit up gloriously The farthest vistas of Eternity; And, flooding heaven itself with radiance new, Revealed the heart of God, all-merciful, all-true. Thus are the thoughts of God made known to men. Yet is all revelation bounded First by its vehicle, and then By its reception. Unseen things Remain unfathomed and unsounded, And hidden as the springs Of an immeasurable sea, Because His thought, sublime and great, No language finds commensurate With its infinity; And, when compressed in any finite mold, 'Tis but a fraction that the mind of man Receiveth. For we hold But what we span, We only see What feeble lenses and weak sight may scan. And thus a double lessening, double veiling Of the unimagined glory of a thought of Him Who dwells between the cherubim! First, suffering and paling By its necessitate transition From Infinite to Finite, for that all expression Is by its nature finite; then the vision Which angels might receive straightway, Unshorn of any ray, And hold in full possession, Must enter by the portal Of faculties sin-paralyzed and mortal; And in the human breast's low-vaulted gloom It finds no room For any high display. This is no guess-work. It is even so With our poor thoughts. For they are always more Than any form or language can convey. We know Things that we cannot say; We soar, Where we could never map our flight. We see Flashes and colorings too quick and bright For any hand to paint. We meet Depths that no line can sound. We hear Strange far-off mental music, all too sweet, Too great for any earthly instrument, -- Gone, if we strive to bring it near. For who that knows The sudden surging and the startling throes Of subterranean soul-fires with no vent, That seek an Etna all in vain; -- Or the slow forming of some grand, fair thought, With exquisite lingering outwrought, Only to melt before the touch of effort or of pain (Like quivering rose-fire 'neath a filmy veil In mountain dawn, That grows all still and pale When the transparent silver is withdrawn): -- Oh! who that knows but owns the meagre dower Of poor weak language married to thought's royal power -- Oh! who that knows but needs must own If it be thus Even with us, Groping and tottering alone Around the footstool of His throne, With limited ideas and babe-like powers, What must it be with Him, whose thoughts are not as ours! And now We only bow, And gaze above In raptured awe and silent love; For mortal speech Can never reach A word of meetly-molded praise For one glimpse of the blessed rays, Ineffable and purely bright, Outflowing ever from the Unapproached Light. They say there is a hollow, safe and still, A point of coolness and repose Within the centre of a flame, where life might dwell Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous shell; Which the bright walls of fire inclose In breachless splendor, barrier that no foes Could pass at will. There is a point of rest At the great centre of the cyclone's force, A silence at its secret source; -- A little child might slumber undistressed, Without the ruffle of one fairy curl, In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl. So, in the centre of these thoughts of God, Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire, -- As we fall overawed Upon our faces, and are lifted higher By His great gentleness, and carried nigher Than unredeemed angels, till we stand Even in the hollow of His hand -- Nay, more! we lean upon His breast -- There, there we find a point of perfect rest And glorious safety. There we see His thoughts to usward, thoughts of peace That stoop in tenderest love; that still increase With increase of our need; that never change; That never fail, or falter, or forget. O pity infinite! O royal mercy free! O gentle climax of the depth and height Of God's most precious thoughts, most wonderful, most strange! "For I am poor and needy, yet The Lord Himself, Jehovah, thinketh upon me!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUNTAIN IS STRIPPED by DAVID IGNATOW AS CLOSE AS BREATHING by MARK JARMAN UNHOLY SONNET 1 by MARK JARMAN UNHOLY SONNET 13 by MARK JARMAN BIRTH-DUES by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE SILENT SHEPHERDS by ROBINSON JEFFERS GOING TO THE HORSE FLATS by ROBINSON JEFFERS CONSECRATION HYMN by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL I DID THIS FOR THEE! WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME? by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY FATHER, 1860 by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL |
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