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He thought to keep himself from Hell By knowing and by loving well. His work and vision, his desire Would keep him climbing up the stair. At limit now of flesh and bone, He cannot climb for holding on. “I fear the drop, I feel the blaze— Lord, grant thy mercy and thy grace.”
have again come home through miles of sky from hours of abstract talk in the way of modern times when humans live in their minds and the world, forgotten, dies into explanations. Weary with absence, I return to earth.
Thus far he keeps the old sectarian piety: By grace we live. But he can go no further. Having known the grace that for so long has kept this world, haggard as it is, as we have made it, we cannot rest, we must be stirring to keep this gift dwelling among us, eternally alive in time. This is the great work, no other, none harder, none nearer rest or more beautiful.
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground underfoot. Be lighted by the light that falls
