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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MYSTIC'S PRAYER by CONSTANCE CAROLINE WOODHILL NADEN

First Line: MY GOD, WHO ART THE GOD OF LONELINESS
Last Line: INFINITUDE OF LIFE, TOO DEEP FOR AUGHT SAVE REST.
Subject(s): MYSTICISM;
MY God, who art the God of loneliness,
Who, Life of human souls, art yet alone,
Who, Lord of joy, dost bear the world's distress,
Come Thou, and quench my being in Thine own;
Come, in this mute cathedral make Thy throne
While moonlight through the blazoned window streams,
Where kings and saints a ceaseless vigil keep;
Their reflex glories, like celestial dreams,
Haunt the grey carven brows of those who sleep,
Illuming changeless eyes, that will not wake and weep.

Thy sleep, O Christ, hath sanctified their calm;
Their hands point upward; yet nor wish nor care
Doth move Thy tranquil souls to join the psalm
Sung in this ancient home of tears and prayer.
Yes, these are dead; but I, who live and breathe,
Would learn of them, and dying would bequeath
A memory of one, who deaf to sound
Communed with Silence, guardian of all truth;
Who, with divinest midnight compassed round,
The secret soul of earth and heaven found,
And knew the heart of death, wherein are life and youth.

For this one hope I wrestle, day and night;
In this one faith I joined thy chosen saints,
And left my virgin love, my young delight,
An earth-born cloud, that seemed most fair and white
Until I looked beyond, and saw the sun,
And blinded by his beams, desired not sight.
Now might I dream that heaven is almost won,
Save that yon pale Madonna's plaintive smile
Thrills me with anguish, till my spirit faints,
Till, even in this lone cathedral aisle,
A sad voice murmurs -- "Didst thou scorn thy life
For love of God? and hath He sealed thy choice?
A main contented, or a happy wife
I might have been." Hush, Lord, this bitter voice.
I am not worthy, save of Thy disdain,
Yet unto Thee have I performed my vow,
And tortured soul and sense, and prayed for pain;
It cannot be that Thou wilt scorn me now,
That thou hast let me toil and agonize in vain.

Not martyrdom I crave, nor length of days;
But grant me, Lord, ere this frail form decays,
The perfect union that my soul has sought,
The ecstasy that knows nor prayer nor praise,
The raptured silence, unprofaned by thought.
No more wilt Thou in heavenly dreams appear,
When of Thy mystic Essence I am part,
For mine own soul I see not, nor can hear
Even the pulsings of this fevered heart,
Fevered and weary; but full calm is near;
Almighty calm, in endless being blest,
Infinitude of life, too deep for aught save rest.




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