I

Your life, O Master, was a mighty rock,

Reared amid breakers, whereupon a flock

Of birds were ever nestled; sometimes white

Soft things, and sometimes fierce ones and untame,

Shorn of their plumy pride by pain and fright;

Hurt of the darts they had provoked; who came,

Tost by the heavy tempest to your breast;

Craving but quiet and receiving rest.

God bad His waters over you to come,

And hide your shelter from the wayfaring;

So the poor pilgrim birds of weary wing

Missed their good rock amid the breakers’ foam;—

And flew until they found a better thing;

A sunlit country for their rest and home.

II

Your life, O Master, was a mighty tree

Which dew and sun and rain had perfectly

Matured, and brought to bear in plenitude

And utter beauty and divine content,

Its leaves for healing, and its fruit for food,

With Eden smells of wondrous ravishment;

And men and women there were healed and fed,

And in your happy shadow gladdened.

God's voice did break the tree and lay it low;

And all those men and women, shelterless,

Weary and hungry, in their great distress,

Mourned for their loss with very bitter woe;—

Then found that Home whither all souls must press;

And God's own self for evermore did know.