I cannot praise thee. By his instrument <br />The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; <br />For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, <br />Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned! <br /> <br />I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, <br />But not for life that is not life in me; <br />Not for a being that is less than love- <br />A barren shoal half lifted from a sea! <br /> <br />Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships <br />Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: <br />Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips <br />Than carry them a heart so poor and prone! <br /> <br />I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, <br />That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know- <br />A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, <br />Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow. <br /> <br />And I can bless thee too for every smart, <br />For every disappointment, ache, and fear; <br />For every hook thou fixest in my heart, <br />For every burning cord that draws me near. <br /> <br />But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave. <br />Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. <br />Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: <br />Think to me, Father, and I am a king! <br /> <br />My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, <br />Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; <br />And swift contending harmonies shall shake <br />Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shall-the-dead-praise-thee/
