Songs of the Soul/Part 1/Where I Am
< Songs of the Soul | Part 1
WHERE I AM
Not the lordly domes on high
With tall heads daring clouds and sky,
Nor alabaster shining floors,
Nor the rich organ’s awesome roar,
Nor rainbowed windows’ beauty quaint
With colossal chronicles told in paint,
Nor torch nor incense’ curling soar,
Nor gay-dressed children of the choir,
Nor well-planned sermon,
Nor loud-tongued prayer
Can call Me there.
The richly carven door,
Through which all pomp and pride pour,
I deign not through to go;—
But still I come Incognito.
The stony, polished altar
Or narrow builded sermon seat
Too narrow seems to hold
My large, large Body for retreat.
A humble magnet-call,
A whisper by the brook
On grassy altar small—
There I have my nook:—
A crumbling temple shrine,
A little place unseen,
Unwatched, unhedged,
Is where I humbly rest and lean:
A sacred heart
Tear washed and true
Doth draw me with its rue.
I take no bribe
Of strength or wealth
Of caste or church or scribe,
Of fame or faith or festive breath,
But wail for truth;
And e’er the broken distant heart
Doth draw Me e’en to heathen lands,
And My help in silence I impart.
With tall heads daring clouds and sky,
Nor alabaster shining floors,
Nor the rich organ’s awesome roar,
Nor rainbowed windows’ beauty quaint
With colossal chronicles told in paint,
Nor torch nor incense’ curling soar,
Nor gay-dressed children of the choir,
Nor well-planned sermon,
Nor loud-tongued prayer
Can call Me there.
The richly carven door,
Through which all pomp and pride pour,
I deign not through to go;—
But still I come Incognito.
The stony, polished altar
Or narrow builded sermon seat
Too narrow seems to hold
My large, large Body for retreat.
A humble magnet-call,
A whisper by the brook
On grassy altar small—
There I have my nook:—
A crumbling temple shrine,
A little place unseen,
Unwatched, unhedged,
Is where I humbly rest and lean:
A sacred heart
Tear washed and true
Doth draw me with its rue.
I take no bribe
Of strength or wealth
Of caste or church or scribe,
Of fame or faith or festive breath,
But wail for truth;
And e’er the broken distant heart
Doth draw Me e’en to heathen lands,
And My help in silence I impart.