 | 04:32 pm - Poem for the Day I've been reading in a new-to-me collection of Gerard Manley Hopkins' poems and letters, and found this gem. It's not one of his better-known, but I really like it.
Nondum Nondum “Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself.” -Isaiah xlv. 15
God, though to Thee our psalm we raise No answering voice comes from the skies; To Thee the trembling sinner prays But no forgiving voice replies; Our prayer seems lost in desert ways, Our hymn in the vast silence dies.
We see the glories of the earth But not the hand that wrought them all: Night to a myriad worlds gives birth, Yet like a lighted empty hall Where stands no host at door or hearth Vacant creation’s lamps appal.
We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King, With attributes we deem are meet; Each in in his own imagining Sets up a shadow in Thy seat; Yet know not how our gifts to bring, Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.
And still th’unbroken silence broods While ages and while aeons run, As erst upon chaotic floods The Spirit hovered ere the sun Had called the seasons’ changeful moods And life’s first germs from death had won.
And still th’abysses infinite Surround the peak from which we gaze. Deep calls to deep, and blackest night Giddies the soul with blinding daze That dares to cast its searching sight On being’s dread and vacant maze.
And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world Contends about its many creeds And hosts confront with flags unfurled And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds And truth is heard, with tears impearled, A moaning voice among the reeds.
My hand upon my lips I lay; The breast’s desponding sob I quell; I move along life’s tomb-decked way And listen to the passing bell Summoning men from speechless day To death’s more silent, darker spell.
Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond, To shew Thee that Thou art, and near, Let patience with her chastening wand Dispel the doubt and dry the tear; And lead me child-like by the hand If still in darkness not in fear.
Speak! whisper to my watching heart One word-as when a mother speaks Soft, when she sees her infant start, Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks. Then, to behold Thee as Thou art, I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins
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