Classic Poem

There is a Master in my heart
To whom, though oft against my will,
I bring the songs I sing apart
And strive to think that they fulfil
His silent law, within my heart.

But He is blind to my desires,
And deaf to all that I would plead:
He tests my truth at purer fires
And shames my purple with His need.
He claims my deeds, not my desires.

And often when my comrades praise,
I sadden, for He turns from me!
But, sometimes, when they blame, I raise
Mine eyes to His, and in them see
A tenderness too deep for praise.

He is not to be bought with gold,
Or lured by thornless crowns of fame;
But when some rebel thought hath sold
Him to dishonour and to shame,
And my heart's Pilate cries, "Behold,"

"Behold the Man," I know Him then;
And all those wild thronged clamours die
In my heart's judgment hall again,
Or if it ring with "Crucify!"
Some few are faithful even then.

Some few sad thoughts,--one bears His cross;
To that dark Calvary of my pride;
One stands far off and mourns His loss,
And one poor thief on either side
Hangs on his own unworthy cross.

And one--O, truth in ancient guise!--
Rails, and one bids him cease alway,
And the God turns His hungering eyes
On that poor thought with, "Thou, this day,
Shalt sing, shalt sing, in Paradise."