The Wings of Rest

The marble door before Thy face
What is it but a little dust?
The chalice, golden, rubied vase,
Will drop away as all things must.

Thus fleeting are the things of sense,
Thyself alone eternal art;
Not more the universe immense
Thy home, than any human heart.

In this dim room the tides of time
Are changed and ever changing still;
Here while the hour-bells steady chime
Works out serene Thy timeless will.

I stand before Thee but a space,
If faith be seeing, sight is dim, —
To sinners mercy show, Thy face
For sunset eyes of seraphim.

And they, my friends, who travel far,
They do not leave me, for with Thee
Distance is not, and every star
Whirls round Thy finger ceaselessly.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.