Andrew Rykmans Prayer

Andrew Rykmans dead and gone;     You can see his leaning slate     In the graveyard, and thereon     Read his name and date.     Trust is truer than our fears,     Runs the legend through the moss,     Gain is not in added years,     Nor in death is loss.     Still the feet that thither trod,     All the friendly eyes are dim;     Only Nature, now, and God     Have a care for him.     There the dews of quiet fall,     Singing birds and soft winds stray:     Shall the tender Heart of all     Be less kind than they?     What he was and what he is     They who ask may haply find,     If they read this prayer of his     Which he left behind.          .         .         .         .         .          Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare     Shape in words a mortals prayer!     Prayer, that, when my day is done,     And I see its setting sun,     Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,     Sink beneath the horizons rim,     When this ball of rock and clay     Crumbles from my feet away,     And the solid shores of sense     Melt into the vague immense,     Father! I may come to Thee     Even with the beggars plea,     As the poorest of Thy poor,     With my needs, and nothing more.     Not as one who seeks his home     With a step assured I come;     Still behind the tread I hear     Of my life-companion, Fear;     Still a shadow deep and vast     From my westering feet is cast,     Wavering, doubtful, undefined,     Never shapen nor outlined     From myself the fear has grown,     And the shadow is my own.     Yet, O Lord, through all a sense     Of Thy tender providence     Stays my failing heart on Thee,     And confirms the feeble knee;     And, at times, my worn feet press     Spaces of cool quietness,     Lilied whiteness shone upon     Not by light of moon or sun.     Hours there be of inmost calm,     Broken but by grateful psalm,     When I love Thee more than fear Thee,     And Thy blessed Christ seems near me,     With forgiving look, as when     He beheld the Magdalen.     Well I know that all things move     To the spheral rhythm of love,     That to Thee, O Lord of all!     Nothing can of chance befall     Child and seraph, mote and star,     Well Thou knowest what we are     Through Thy vast creative plan     Looking, from the worm to man,     There is pity in Thine eyes,     But no hatred nor surprise.     Not in blind caprice of will,     Not in cunning sleight of skill,     Not for show of power, was wrought     Natures marvel in Thy thought.     Never careless hand and vain     Smites these chords of joy and pain;     No immortal selfishness     Plays the game of curse and bless     Heaven and earth are witnesses     That Thy glory goodness is.     Not for sport of mind and force     Hast Thou made Thy universe,     But as atmosphere and zone     Of Thy loving heart alone.     Man, who walketh in a show,     Sees before him, to and fro,     Shadow and illusion go;     All things flow and fluctuate,     Now contract and now dilate.     In the welter of this sea,     Nothing stable is but Thee;     In this whirl of swooning trance,     Thou alone art permanence;     All without Thee only seems,     All beside is choice of dreams.     Never yet in darkest mood     Doubted I that Thou wast good,     Nor mistook my will for fate,     Pain of sin for heavenly hate,     Never dreamed the gates of pearl     Rise from out the burning marl,     Or that good can only live     Of the bad conservative,     And through counterpoise of hell     Heaven alone be possible.     For myself alone I doubt;     All is well, I know, without;     I alone the beauty mar,     I alone the music jar.     Yet, with hands by evil stained,     And an ear by discord pained,     I am groping for the keys     Of the heavenly harmonies;     Still within my heart I bear     Love for all things good and fair.     Hands of want or souls in pain     Have not sought my door in vain;     I have kept my fealty good     To the human brotherhood;     Scarcely have I asked in prayer     That which others might not share.     I, who hear with secret shame     Praise that paineth more than blame,     Rich alone in favors lent,     Virtuous by accident,     Doubtful where I fain would rest,     Frailest where I seem the best,     Only strong for lack of test,     What am I, that I should press     Special pleas of selfishness,     Coolly mounting into heaven     On my neighbor unforgiven?     Neer to me, howeer disguised,     Comes a saint unrecognized;     Never fails my heart to greet     Noble deed with warmer beat;     Halt and maimed, I own not less     All the grace of holiness;     Nor, through shame or self-distrust,     Less I love the pure and just.     Lord, forgive these words of mine     What have I that is not Thine?     Whatsoeer I fain would boast     Needs Thy pitying pardon most.     Thou, O Elder Brother! who     In Thy flesh our trial knew,     Thou, who hast been touched by these     Our most sad infirmities,     Thou alone the gulf canst span     In the dual heart of man,     And between the soul and sense     Reconcile all difference,     Change the dream of me and mine     For the truth of Thee and Thine,     And, through chaos, doubt, and strife,     Interfuse Thy calm of life.     Haply, thus by Thee renewed,     In Thy borrowed goodness good,     Some sweet morning yet in Gods     Dim, veonian periods,     Joyful I shall wake to see     Those I love who rest in Thee,     And to them in Thee allied     Shall my soul be satisfied.     Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me     What the future life may be.     Other lips may well be bold;     Like the publican of old,     I can only urge the plea,     Lord, be merciful to me!     Nothing of desert I claim,     Unto me belongeth shame.     Not for me the, crowns of gold,     Palms, and harpings manifold;     Not for erring eye and feet     Jasper wall and golden street.     What thou wilt, O Father, give I     All is gain that I receive.     If my voice I may not raise     In the elders song of praise,     If I may not, sin-defiled,     Claim my birthright as a child,     Suffer it that I to Thee     As an hired servant be;     Let the lowliest task be mine,     Grateful, so the work be Thine;     Let me find the humblest place     In the shadow of Thy grace     Blest to me were any spot     Where temptation whispers not.     If there be some weaker one,     Give me strength to help him on     If a blinder soul there be,     Let me guide him nearer Thee.     Make my mortal dreams come true     With the work I fain would do;     Clothe with life the weak intent,     Let me be the thing I meant;     Let me find in Thy employ     Peace that dearer is than joy;     Out of self to love be led     And to heaven acclimated,     Until all things sweet and good     Seem my natural habitude.     .         .         .         .         .     So we read the prayer of him     Who, with John of Labadie,     Trod, of old, the oozy rim     Of the Zuyder Zee.     Thus did Andrew Rykman pray.     Are we wiser, better grown,     That we may not, in our day,     Make his prayer our own?