by
Andrew Rykman’s dead and gone;
You can see
his leaning slate
In the graveyard, and thereon
Read his name and date.
“Trust is truer than our fears,”
Runs the legend through the moss,
“Gain is not in added years,
Nor in death is loss.”
Still the feet that thither trod,
All the
friendly eyes are dim;
Only Nature, now, and God
Have a care for him.
There the dews of quiet fall,
Singing birds and
soft winds stray:
Shall the tender Heart of all
Be less kind than they?
What he was and what he is
They who ask may haply
find,
If they read this prayer of his
Which he left behind.
. . . . .
Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare
Shape in words
a mortal’s prayer!
Prayer, that, when my day is done,
And I see
its setting sun,
Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,
Sink beneath the
horizon’s rim,—
When this ball of rock and clay
Crumbles from
my feet away,
And the solid shores of sense
Melt into the vague
immense,
Father! I may come to Thee
Even with the beggar’s plea,
As the poorest of Thy poor,
With my needs, and nothing more.
Not as one who seeks his home
With a step assured
I come;
Still behind the tread I hear
Of my life-companion, Fear;
Still a shadow deep and vast
From my westering feet is cast,
Wavering, doubtful, undefined,
Never shapen nor outlined
From
myself the fear has grown,
And the shadow is my own.
Yet, O Lord, through all a sense
Of Thy tender
providence
Stays my failing heart on Thee,
And confirms the feeble
knee;
And, at times, my worn feet press
Spaces of cool quietness,
Lilied whiteness shone upon
Not by light of moon or sun.
Hours
there be of inmost calm,
Broken but by grateful psalm,
When I love Thee
more than fear Thee,
And Thy blessed Christ seems near me,
With
forgiving look, as when
He beheld the Magdalen.
Well I know that all
things move
To the spheral rhythm of love,—
That to Thee, O Lord
of all!
Nothing can of chance befall
Child and seraph, mote and star,
Well Thou knowest what we are
Through Thy vast creative plan
Looking, from the worm to man,
There is pity in Thine eyes,
But no
hatred nor surprise.
Not in blind caprice of will,
Not in cunning
sleight of skill,
Not for show of power, was wrought
Nature’s
marvel in Thy thought.
Never careless hand and vain
Smites these chords
of joy and pain;
No immortal selfishness
Plays the game of curse and
bless
Heaven and earth are witnesses
That Thy glory goodness is.
Not for sport of mind and force
Hast Thou made
Thy universe,
But as atmosphere and zone
Of Thy loving heart alone.
Man, who walketh in a show,
Sees before him, to and fro,
Shadow and
illusion go;
All things flow and fluctuate,
Now contract and now
dilate.
In the welter of this sea,
Nothing stable is but Thee;
In
this whirl of swooning trance,
Thou alone art permanence;
All without
Thee only seems,
All beside is choice of dreams.
Never yet in darkest
mood
Doubted I that Thou wast good,
Nor mistook my will for fate,
Pain of sin for heavenly hate,—
Never dreamed the gates of pearl
Rise from out the burning marl,
Or that good can only live
Of the
bad conservative,
And through counterpoise of hell
Heaven alone be
possible.
For myself alone I doubt;
All is well, I know,
without;
I alone the beauty mar,
I alone the music jar.
Yet, with
hands by evil stained,
And an ear by discord pained,
I am groping for
the keys
Of the heavenly harmonies;
Still within my heart I bear
Love for all things good and fair.
Hands of want or souls in pain
Have not sought my door in vain;
I have kept my fealty good
To the
human brotherhood;
Scarcely have I asked in prayer
That which others
might not share.
I, who hear with secret shame
Praise that paineth more
than blame,
Rich alone in favors lent,
Virtuous by accident,
Doubtful where I fain would rest,
Frailest where I seem the best,
Only strong for lack of test,—
What am I, that I should press
Special pleas of selfishness,
Coolly mounting into heaven
On my
neighbor unforgiven?
Ne’er to me, howe’er disguised,
Comes a
saint unrecognized;
Never fails my heart to greet
Noble deed with
warmer beat;
Halt and maimed, I own not less
All the grace of holiness;
Nor, through shame or self-distrust,
Less I love the pure and just.
Lord, forgive these words of mine
What have I that is not Thine?
Whatsoe’er I fain would boast
Needs Thy pitying pardon most.
Thou, O Elder Brother! who
In Thy flesh our trial knew,
Thou, who
hast been touched by these
Our most sad infirmities,
Thou alone the
gulf canst span
In the dual heart of man,
And between the soul and
sense
Reconcile all difference,
Change the dream of me and mine
For
the truth of Thee and Thine,
And, through chaos, doubt, and strife,
Interfuse Thy calm of life.
Haply, thus by Thee renewed,
In Thy
borrowed goodness good,
Some sweet morning yet in God’s
Dim,
veonian periods,
Joyful I shall wake to see
Those I love who rest in
Thee,
And to them in Thee allied
Shall my soul be satisfied.
Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me
What the future
life may be.
Other lips may well be bold;
Like the publican of old,
I can only urge the plea,
“Lord, be merciful to me!”
Nothing of desert I claim,
Unto me belongeth shame.
Not for me the,
crowns of gold,
Palms, and harpings manifold;
Not for erring eye and
feet
Jasper wall and golden street.
What thou wilt, O Father, give I
All is gain that I receive.
If my voice I may not raise
In the elders’
song of praise,
If I may not, sin-defiled,
Claim my birthright as a
child,
Suffer it that I to Thee
As an hired servant be;
Let the
lowliest task be mine,
Grateful, so the work be
Thine; Let me find the
humblest place
In the shadow of Thy grace
Blest to me were any spot
Where temptation whispers not.
If there be some weaker one,
Give me
strength to help him on
If a blinder soul there be,
Let me guide him
nearer Thee.
Make my mortal dreams come true
With the work I fain would
do;
Clothe with life the weak intent,
Let me be the thing I meant;
Let me find in Thy employ
Peace that dearer is than joy;
Out of
self to love be led
And to heaven acclimated,
Until all things sweet
and good
Seem my natural habitude
. . . . .
So we read the prayer of him
Who, with John of
Labadie,
Trod, of old, the oozy rim
Of the Zuyder Zee.
Thus did Andrew Rykman pray.
Are we wiser, better
grown,
That we may not, in our day,
Make his prayer our own?