The seven books which compose “The flowing forth of the light of the Godhead” being composed of detached papers put together by Brother Henry, have, as has been remarked, no special connection one with another. It may be as well to give detached poems from the first five books, and thoughts in prose, or rather not in rhyme, asking indulgence for the imperfect rendering of either into modern English. The titles given are from the original.
How God Is to Be Praised for Eight Things.
O Dew, abundant from the depths of Heaven;
O sweet white Flower, pure as mountain snow;
O Precious Fruit of that celestial Flower;
O Ransom from the everlasting woe;
The holy Sacrifice for sins of men;
The Gift that the eternal Father gave;
O Dew of life, by Thee I live again,
By Thee who camest down to seek and save.
I see Thee small, in low and humble guise;
And me Thou seest, great in shame and sin:
Lord, I would be Thy daily sacrifice,
Though I am worthless, vile, and foul within.
Yet into that mean cup Thy grace will pour
The love that overflows for evermore.
How God Draweth the Soul to Himself.
Eagle of the highest Heaven, gentle Lamb, Infolding Fire,
Kindle, glow in me.
Barren, thirsty, do I seek Thee,
Through the ages of desire,
One day as a thousand winters,
Waiting, Lord, for Thee.
Bitterer to the soul that loveth
Far from her Beloved to dwell,
Than the pit of doom to sinners —
An abyss there is profounder
Than the depths of hell.
The nightingale she can but sing,
For she is made of love’s delight,
Of love bereft, what else were left
Than death and night?
Then spake the spirit to the soul —
“Arise, O Queen, and sing!
Behold, He comes, the
Beloved One, Behold the
Bridegroom King!”
Then spake the soul in joyful fear―
“O blessed Herald, so might it be!
For I am faithless, guilty, vile,
In Him alone is there rest for me.
For me is no home beneath the skies,
No summer land, and no resting-place,
But the marvelous pity of His eyes,
And the sweetness of His Face;
And when all around the lights are dim,
The heart that sorroweth turns to Him.”
The Herald said―
“Thou must watch and wait,
And water the earth, and strew the flowers.”
But the soul made answer―
“The desolate
Must watch in prayer, and must wait in shame,
In tears must water, and long for the day;
But if as I strew the flowers He came,
From myself and my tears I should pass away.
For He strikes the chords of the heavenly lyre,
And sorrow and sadness turn and flee,
And the earthly love, and the earth’s desire,
In that music sweet depart from me.”