Stumbling through the night,
To my dim lattice, O calling Christ! I go,
And out into the dark look for thy star-crowned head.
6.
There are who come to me, and write, and send,
Whom I would love, giving good things to all,
But friend--that name I cannot on them spend;
'Tis from the centre of self-love they call
For cherishing--for which they first must know
How to be still, and take the seat that's low:
When, Lord, shall I be fit--when wilt thou call me friend?
7.
Wilt thou not one day, Lord? In all my wrong,
Self-love and weakness, laziness and fear,
This one thing I can say: I am content
To be and have what in thy heart I am meant
To be and have. In my best times I long
After thy will, and think it glorious-dear;
Even in my worst, perforce my will to thine is bent.
8.
My God, I look to thee for tenderness
Such as I could not seek from any man,
Or in a human heart fancy or plan--
A something deepest prayer will not express:
Lord, with thy breath blow on my being's fires,
Until, even to the soul with self-love wan,
I yield the primal love, that no return desires.
9.
Only no word of mine must ever foster
The self that in a brother's bosom gnaws;
I may not fondle failing, nor the boaster
Encourage with the breath of my applause.
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