Читать книгу A Few More Verses - Susan Coolidge - Страница 13

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OH! not in strange portentous way

Christ’s miracles were wrought of old,

The common thing, the common clay,

He touched and tinctured, and straightway

It grew to glory manifold.

The barley loaves were daily bread,

Kneaded and mixed with usual skill;

No care was given, no spell was said,

But when the Lord had blessed, they fed

The multitude upon the hill.

The hemp was sown ’neath common sun,

Watered by common dews and rain,

Of which the fishers’ nets were spun;

Nothing was prophesied or done

To mark it from the other grain.

Coarse, brawny hands let down the net

When the Lord spake and ordered so;

They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet,

Just as in other days, and set

Their backs to labor, bending low;

But quivering, leaping from the lake

The marvellous, shining burdens rise

Until the laden meshes break,

And, all amazèd, no man spake,

But gazed with wonder in his eyes.

So still, dear Lord, in every place

Thou standest by the toiling folk

With love and pity in thy face,

And givest of thy help and grace

To those who meekly bear the yoke.

Not by strange sudden change and spell,

Baffling and darkening Nature’s face;

Thou takest the things we know so well

And buildest on them thy miracle—

The heavenly on the commonplace.

The lives which seem so poor, so low,

The hearts which are so cramped and dull,

The baffled hopes, the impulse slow,

Thou takest, touchest all, and lo!

They blossom to the beautiful.

We need not wait for thunder-peal

Resounding from a mount of fire,

While round our daily paths we feel

Thy sweet love and thy power to heal,

Working in us thy full desire.