Classic Poem

Closest to men, thou pitying Son of man,
And thrilled from crown to foot with fellowship,
Yet most apart and strange and lonely as God—
Dwell in my heart, remote and intimate One!
Brother of all the world, I come to Thee!

Gentle as she who nursed Thee at her breast
(Yet what a lash of lightnings once thy tongue
To scourge the hypocrite and Pharisee!)—
Nerve Thou mine arm, O meek, O mighty One!
Champion of all who fail, I fly to Thee!

O Man of Sorrows with the wounded hands—
For chaplet, for throne, a pagan cross;
Bowed with the woe and agony of time,
Yet loved by children and the feasting guests—
I bring my suffering, joyful heart to Thee!

Chaste as the virginal lily on her stem,
Yet in each lot, full pulse, each tropic vein,
More filled with feeling than the flower with sun;
No anchorite—hale, sinewy, warm with love—
I come in youth's high tide of bliss to Thee!

O Christ of contrasts, infinite paradox,
Yet life's explainer, solvent harmony,
Frail strength, pure passion, meek austerity,
And the white splendor of these darkened years—
I lean my wondering, wayward heart on Thine!