When swarms of small distractions harry
Devotion like the gnats that fly
Till prayers are cold and customary,
Not such as please Thee, Heaven-high.
When I forget for all my striving
Thy presence holy and august,
Be Thou not angry, but forgiving
To her Thou madest from the dust.
Say to Thyself: This mortal being,
So deaf, so blind, so prone to sin,
Has glimpses of Me without seeing
The places where the nails went in.
Say: Through the crusts of earth, My creature
Perceives Me, hails Me Lord above;
Rumours of the lost innocence reach her,
With full assurance of My love.
Say: Of all marvels I have fashioned
Is none more wonderful and new
As that this thing should go impassioned
For heights beyond her mortal view.
What though her mind should play and ponder
On small things meet for such as she!
O love! O loyalty! O wonder!
That in the darkness gropes for Me.