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Poem by Katharine Tynan
When swarms of small distractions harry Devotion like the gnats that fly Till prayers are cold and customary, Not such as please Thee, Heaven-high. When I forget for all my striving Thy presence holy and august, Be Thou not angry, but forgiving To her Thou madest from the dust. Say to Thyself: This mortal being, So deaf, so blind, so prone to sin, Has glimpses of Me without seeing The places where the nails went in. Say: Through the crusts of earth, My creature Perceives Me, hails Me Lord above; Rumours of the lost innocence reach her, With full assurance of My love. Say: Of all marvels I have fashioned Is none more wonderful and new As that this thing should go impassioned For heights beyond her mortal view. What though her mind should play and ponder On small things meet for such as she! O love! O loyalty! O wonder! That in the darkness gropes for Me.
Katharine Tynan's other poems:
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