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My Questions.

If He who moulded me after His will,

Saw fit to string to the singing-hitch

The mystic chords of my life - and to fill

My heart with a subtle presence which

Hungers and aches for the prophet sense

That - mangle all our passion and pain -

Sees that the heavens are clear, and thence

God shining on us - am I to blame?

If waiting here in front of the foe,

Biding the hour when once again

With shouts of battle and sobs of woe,

Crying passive and wailing pain,

All the land shall be hoarse, and we

Plunge in the thick of the howling press?

Is it a sin that I turn to thee,

Dreaming a dream of thankfulness?