Not all in thee is matter-born
On thy fragile animated clod base,
Nor even the vital of freer ways
Marks limit of thy human station.
Thy heart is but a wider door
By feeling all the world to enring.
Thy songs not the purpose of tongue,
Littering space with its stammer poor.
Thy wandering feet most faithful
Trusting thy each whim and vagrance,
Ferries thee not to that high entrance
That turns thy journeys purposeful
Thy hands clearing thorn and tangle
On the trackless roads of life’s thickets
Or fashions prop-staff for thy footsteps
Can true purpose from life wrangle.
The apparent shape the eye but sees
Not the string or the Puppeteer behind,
Accustomed to shadow shapes of blind
Thou doth wander here in duress.
Above and within thee are the keys;
For all is His, to adore therefore,
Unlocks doors of the magic store
That thy locked up freedom frees.
The other above by vast submission,
Is by long exacting effort reached
Then the grey citadels are breached
Releasing thy soul from base station.
Then begins thy role in this story
Scripted by the Master just for thee.
Rue not the passage at times dim
All but wanders to the feet of Him.