Frederick W. Faber
O how the thought of God attracts
And draws the heart from earth,
And sickens it of passing shows
And dissipating mirth!
’Tis not enough to save our souls,
To shun th’eternal fires;
The thought of God will rouse the heart
To more sublime desires.
God only is the creature’s home,
Though rough and strait the road;
Yet nothing less can satisfy
The love that longs for God.
How little of that road, my soul,
How little hast thou gone!
Take heart, and let the thought of God
Allure thee further on.
O utter but the Name of God,
Down in your heart of hearts,
And see from the world at once
All tempting light depart!
A trusting heart, a yearning eye,
Can win their way above,
If mountains can be moved by faith,
Is there less power in love?
The perfect way is hard to flesh;
It is not hard to love;
If thou wert sick for want of God,
How swiftly wouldst thou move.
Dole not thy duties out to God,
But let thy hand be free;
Look long at Jesus, His sweet love—
How was it dealt to thee?
And only this perfection needs:
A heart kept calm all day,
To catch the words the Spirit there
From hour to hour may say.
Then keep thy conscience sensitive,
No inward token miss,
And go where grace entices thee—
Perfection lies in this.1
Be docile to thine unseen Guide,
Love Him as He loves thee;
Time and obedience are enough,
And thou a saint shalt be.