The Death of Grant
by Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914) |
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Father! whose hard and cruel law
Is part of thy
compassion's plan,
Thy works presumptuously we scan
For what the prophets say they saw.
Unbidden still,
the awful slope
Walling us in, we climb to gain
Assurance of the shining plain
That faith has certified
to hope.
In vain: beyond the circling hill
The
shadow and the cloud abide;
Subdue the doubt, our spirits
guide
To trust the Record and be still;
To trust
it loyally as he
Who, heedful of his high design,
Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine,
But wrought thy will
unconsciously,
Disputing not of chance or fate,
Nor questioning of cause or creed:
For anything but
duty's deed
Too simply wise, too humbly great.
The
cannon syllabled his name;
His shadow shifted o'er the
land,
Portentous, as at his command
Successive cities
sprang to flame!
He fringed the continent with fire,
The rivers ran in lines of light!
Thy will be done on
earth�if right
Or wrong he cared not to inquire.
His was the heavy hand, and his
The service of the despot
blade;
His the soft answer that allayed
War's giant
animosities.
Let us have peace: our clouded eyes
Fill, Father, with another light,
That we may see with
clearer sight
Thy servant's soul in Paradise. |
By Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)
Listed November 16, 2012 |
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