Classic Poem

Was this Thy Passover —
The rage of wind and flood, night and despair,
And Thou the Burden past my strength to bear
That made me Christopher?

No form nor loveliness
A weight unseen that bowed my shoulders down,
Only Thy strangling arms around me thrown
To feel for all caress.

Thus art Thou come and gone.
The cold grey light shows all things as before,
No heavenly gleam, no print upon the shore
Where I am left alone.

So will it ever be:
The wild, dark night, the sullen clouded day.
Are these Thy tokens, and is this the way
Thou comest unto me?

But 'twixt the day and night
There comes a moment when drowsed hope is stirred,
And worn-out faith is quickened at Thy word,
And smouldering love burns bright.

Carrying, not carried here;
But I shall know it was Thy arms upbore
When, standing on the radiant morning shore,
Thou callest, Christopher.