Who But Thee
Sonnet — An Invocation To The Master #359
Of what aid is strenuous virtue or bleeding vice
When at Thy whim like waves they rise and fall,
What is deadening sloth or flurry of works
When all is manifested at Thy beck and call?!
Of what use a paltry mind at this enormity
That looms upon our pittance like a Titan
Who marches upon the hours stridently
And casts our lives in a whirlwind’s den?
To the plank of soul we fervently cling
Through the bellowing events that roar
And crash upon the borders of our being,
Oh who but Thee can lead us ashore?
The reins are all Thine, Thine all the forces,
It it not the hour to receive Thy graces?