In a quiet nook it standeth,
⁠Which careless eyes might miss,
That image of Thy sorrow,
⁠And fountain of our bliss.

Low within reach it standeth,
⁠Close to the old church, door,
And by the common pathway,
⁠Appealing evermore.

Low on the wall, that never
⁠The dimmest eyes may miss,
And the lips of the little children
⁠May reach the feet to kiss.

That humble, simple image,
⁠Wrought by the hands of old;
Good hands! that so many ages
⁠Helpless have grown and cold.

That blessed, sacred image
⁠Born of the heart of old
That through the endless ages
⁠Shall nevermore grow cold.

In the common stone rude-carven,
⁠By no great artist's touch;
Yet never the wide world over
⁠Will you find another such.

You may search the wide world over
⁠From freezing to burning zone,
You will never find another
⁠Quite like this only one.

Deep, deep the nails are driven
⁠In the hands they crucified —
So deep, the nails you see not,
⁠But only the arms stretched wide.

And over the head, so weary,
⁠Bowing itself to die,
An open hand down-reaching
⁠Forth from the clouded sky.

The torturers' hands have finished;
⁠His hands are nailèd fast;
"Into thy hands my spirit —
⁠Father, thy hands!" — at last.

Lord, ere thou call our spirits
⁠Within thy hands to be,
Give us some such dear likeness
⁠To leave behind of thee.

Hid in some quiet corner,
⁠Cut in the common stone,
Poor, yet our best, we pray thee,
⁠Our best, and our very own.

Dear Lord, our hearts grow bolder;
⁠We dare to ask much more,
Knowing the more we ask thee,
⁠Thou art hut pleased the more.

Give us to be that image
⁠By the common paths like this:
Low, where the dimmest vision,
⁠The features need not miss;
Low, where the lips of the children
⁠May reach to cling and kiss.

Where the nails to the cross which fix us,
⁠So deep in the wounds may hide,
That men see no more the torture,
⁠But only the arms stretched wide.

A humble, simple image,
⁠Cut in the common stone;
Like thee, yet like no other,
⁠Because thy very own.

From out a wintry sky did sudden gleam
⁠Of sunshine reach a violet where it grew,
That grateful sprang to meet the tender beam,
⁠Unfolding all her leaves of delicate hue,
And shedding perfume in a fragrant stream.
⁠But ere her beauty opened to the view
Descending clouds dispelled such blissful dream,
⁠Nor ever more than that caress she knew.
And thus doth love awake the slumbering heart
⁠To quick response: it opens like a flower
Whilst thousand aspirations yet unknown
⁠Burst into life in one all-tremulous hour.
They shall not die! but higher aims inspire,
⁠And flow in noble deeds, though love hath flown.

I have been sitting alone
⁠All day while the clouds went by,
⁠While moved the strength of the seas,
While the wind with a will of his own,
⁠A poet out of the sky,
⁠Smote the green harp of the trees.

Alone, yet not alone,
⁠For I felt as the gay wind whirled,
⁠As the cloudy sky grew clear,
The touch of our Father half-known,
⁠Who dwells at the heart of the world,
⁠Yet who is always here.