The virtues hide their vanquished fires Within that whiter flame, Till conscience grows irrelevant, And duty but a name!
Pour forth the oil, pour boldly forth, It will not fail until Thou failest vessels to provide Which it may freely fill.
But then, when such are found no more, Though flowing broad and free Till then, and nourished from on high, It straightway stanched will be.
Dig channels for the streams of love, Where they may broadly run; And love has overflowing streams To fill them every one.
But if at any time thou cease Such channels to provide, The very founts of love for thee Will soon be parched and dried.
For we must share, if we would keep, That good thing from above; Ceasing to give, we cease to have; Such is the law of love.
Lord and Father, great and holy! Fearing naught, we come to thee; Fearing naught, though weak and lowly, For thy love has made us free. By the blue sky bending o'er us, By the green earth's flowery zone, Teach us, Lord, the angel chorus, "Thou art Love, and Love alone!"
Though the worlds in flame should perish, Suns and stars in ruin fall, Trust in thee our hearts should cherish, Thou to us be all in all. And though heavens thy name are praising, Seraphs hymn no sweeter tone Than the strains our hearts are raising, "Thou art Love, and Love alone!"
That love for one from which there doth not spring Wide love for all is but a worthless thing.
A voice by Jordan's shore! A summons stern and clear: Reform! be just! and sin no more! God's judgment draweth near!
A voice by Galilee, A holier voice I hear; Love God! thy neighbor love! for, see, God's mercy draweth near!
O voice of Duty, still Speak forth; I hear with awe. In thee I own the sovereign will, Obey the sovereign law.
Thou higher voice of Love! Yet speak thy word in me; Through Duty let me upward move To thy pure liberty!
I pray you, do not use this thing For vengeance; but if questioning What wound, when dealt your humankind, Goes deepest--surely he shall find Who wrongs you, loving _him_ no less-- There's nothing hurts like tenderness.
When on the fragrant sandal-tree The woodman's axe descends, And she who bloomed so beauteously Beneath the keen stroke bends, E'en on the edge that wrought her death Dying she breathed her sweetest breath, As if to token, in her fall, Peace to her foes, and love to all.