Of all Faith’s gifts, the one I sorely miss
Is that quiet lifting of the mind and heart
In unselfconscious praise, the soul of prayer,
Those inner songs of joy, all gathered up
And, with a child-like faith, deposited
With love and longing in the lap of God.
Where else and to which ear can I proclaim
The beauty of the mountains under snow,
The faithfulness and glory of the stars?
To whom commit for healing and support
The ailing body or the anguished mind,
To whom entrust the passing of our days?
The Psalmist’s songs are mine yet in my mouth
The words ring hollow and the blessings vain.
When intellect denies the heart’s desire
And reason takes its pure but ruthless path,
The anthems die away and in their place,
Like ivy on a wall, the silence grows.