Not we who daily walk the city’s
Not those who have been cradled in its heart,
Best understand its architectural art
Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet
Some stranger who has staid his passing feet
And lingered with us for a single hour,
And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,
Than we who deem our knowledge quite complete.
Not always those we hold most loved and dear,
Not always those who dwell with us, know best
Our greater selves. Because they stand so near
They cannot see the lofty mountain crest,
The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and clear
Stands forth—revealed unto the some-time guest.
There is no summit you may not attain,
No purpose which you may not yet achieve,
If you will wait serenely and believe.
Each seeming loss is but a step to’rd gain.
Between the mountain-tops lie vale and plain;
Let nothing make you question, doubt, or grieve;
Give only good, and good alone receive;
And as you welcome joy, so welcome pain.
That which you most desire awaits your word;
Throw wide the door and bid it enter in.
Speak, and the strong vibrations shall be stirred;
Speak, and above earth’s loud, unmeaning din
Your silent declarations shall be heard.
All things are possible to God’s own kin.
There is a room serene and fair,
All palpitant with light and air;
Free from the dust, world’s noise and fuss —
God’s Tower-room in each of us.
Oh! many a stair our feet must press,
And climb from self to selflessness,
Before we reach that radiant room
Above the discord and the gloom.
So many, many stairs to climb,
But mount them gently—take your time;
Rise leisurely, nor strive to run —
Not so the mightiest feats are done.
Well doing of the little things:
Repression of the word that stings;
The tempest of the mind made still
By victory of the God-like will.
The hated task performed in love —
All these are stairs that wind above
The things that trouble and annoy,
Up to the Tower-room of joy.
Rise leisurely; the stairs once trod
Reveal the mountain peaks of God;
And from its upper room the soul
Sees all, in one united whole.
He never made a fortune, or a noise
In the world where men are seeking after fame;
But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys
Who loved the very ground on which he trod.
They thought him just a little short of God;
Oh you should have heard the way they said his name —
There seemed to be a loving little prayer
In their voices, even when they called him ‘Dad.’
Though the man was never heard of anywhere,
As a hero, yet you somehow understood
He was doing well his part and making good;
And you knew it, by the way his children had
Of saying ‘Father.’