Poems (Cook)/Prayer

by Eliza Cook

PRAYER.

How purely true, how deeply warm,
 The inly-breathed appeal may be,
Though adoration wears no form,
 In upraised hand or bended knee!
One Spirit fills all boundless space,
 No limit to the when or where;
And little recks the time or place
 That leads the soul to praise and prayer.

Father above, Almighty one,
 Creator, is that worship vain
That hails each mountain as thy throne,
 And finds a universal fane?
When shining stars, or spangled sod,
 Call forth devotion, who shall dare
To blame, or tell me that a God
 Will never deign to hear such prayer?

Oh! prayer is good when many pour
 Their voices in one solemn tone;
Conning their sacred lessons o'er,
 Or yielding thanks for mercies shown.
'Tis good to see the quiet train
 Forget their worldly joy and care;
While loud response and choral strain
 Re-echo in the house of prayer.

But often have I stood to mark
 The setting sun and closing flower;
When silence and the gathering dark
 Shed holy calmness o'er the hour.
Lone on the hills, my soul confess'd
 More rapt and burning homage there,
And served the Maker it address'd
 With stronger zeal and closer prayer.

When watching those we love and prize
 Till all of life and hope be fled;
When we have gazed on sightless eyes,
 And gently stay'd the falling head:
Then what can soothe the stricken heart,
 What solace overcome despair;
What earthly breathing can impart
 Such healing balm as lonely prayer?

When fears and perils thicken fast,
 And many dangers gather round;
When human aid is vain and past,
 No mortal refuge to be found;
Then can we firmly lean on Heaven,
 And gather strength to meet and bear:
No matter where the storm has driven,
 A saving anchor lives in prayer.

Oh, God! how beautiful the thought,
 How merciful the bless'd decree,
That grace can e'er be found when sought,
 And naught shut out the soul from Thee.
The cell may cramp, the fetters gall,
 The flame may scorch, the rack may tear;
But torture-stake, or prison wall,
 Can be endured with Faith and Prayer.

In desert wilds, in midnight gloom;
 In grateful joy, in trying pain;
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb,
 Oh! when is prayer unheard or vain?
The Infinite, the King of kings,
 Will never heed the when or where;
He'll ne'er reject the heart that brings
 The offering of fervent prayer.