Be pitiful, O God!
We pray together at the kirk,
For mercy, mercy, solely--
Hands weary with the evil work,
We lift them to the Holy!
The corpse is calm below our knee--
Its spirit bright before thee--
Between them, worse than either, we--
Without the rest of glory!
Be pitiful, O God!
We leave the communing of men,
The murmur of the passions;
And live alone, to live again
With endless generations.
Are we so brave?--The sea and sky
In silence lift their mirrors;
And, glassed therein, our spirits high
Recoil from their own terrors.
Be pitiful, O God!
We sit on hills our childhood wist,
Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding:
The sun strikes through the farthest mist,
The city's spire to golden.
The city's golden spire it was,
When hope and health were strong;
But now it is the churchyard grass,
We look upon the longest.
Be pitiful, O God!
And soon all vision waxeth dull--
Men whisper, "He is dying":
We cry no more, "Be pitiful!"--
We have no strength for crying:
No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine,
Look up and triumph rather--
Lo! in the depth of God's Divine,
The Son adjures the Father--
BE PITIFUL, O GOD.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
* * * * *
THE SIFTING OF PETER.
A FOLK-SONG.
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