What philosophy could carry him where Jesus would carry his
obedient friends--into his own peace, namely, far above all fear and
all hate, where his soul should breathe such a high atmosphere of
strength at once and repose, that he should love even his enemies,
and that with no such love as condescendingly overlooks, but with
the real, hearty, and self-involved affection that would die to give
them the true life! Alas! how far was he from such perfection
now--from such a martyrdom, lovely as endless, in the consuming fire
of God! And at the thought, he fell from the heights of his
contemplation--but was caught in the thicket of prayer.
By the time he reached his lodging, the glow had vanished, but the
mood remained. He sat down and wrote the first sketch of the
following verses, then found that his sermon had again drawn nigh,
and was within the reach of his spiritual tentacles.
Father, I cry to thee for bread,
With hungered longing, eager prayer;
Thou hear'st, and givest me instead
More hunger and a half-despair.
O Lord, how long? My days decline;
My youth is lapped in memories old;
I need not bread alone, but wine--
See, cup and hand to thee I hold.
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