Poetry Archives

Blessed are the pure in heart:  for they shall see God.  St.
Matthew v. 8.


   Bless’d are the pure in heart,
   For they shall see our God,
The secret of the Lord is theirs,
   Their soul is Christ’s abode.

   Might mortal thought presume
   To guess an angel’s lay,
Such are the notes that echo through
   The courts of Heaven to-day.

   Such the triumphal hymns
   On Sion’s Prince that wait,
In high procession passing on
   Towards His temple-gate.

   Give ear, ye kings—bow down,
   Ye rulers of the earth—
This, this is He:  your Priest by grace,
   Your God and King by birth.

   No pomp of earthly guards
   Attends with sword and spear,
And all-defying, dauntless look,
   Their monarch’s way to clear;

   Yet are there more with Him
   Than all that are with you—
The armies of the highest Heaven,
   All righteous, good, and true.

   Spotless their robes and pure,
   Dipped in the sea of light,
That hides the unapproached shrine
   From men’s and angels’ sight.

   His throne, thy bosom blest,
   O mother undefiled—
That throne, if aught beneath the skies,
   Beseems the sinless child.

   Lost in high thoughts, “whose son
   The wondrous Babe might prove,”
Her guileless husband walks beside,
   Bearing the hallowed dove;

   Meet emblem of His vow,
   Who, on this happy day,
His dove-like soul—best sacrifice—
   Did on God’s altar lay.

   But who is he, by years
   Bowed, but erect in heart,
Whose prayers are struggling with his tears?
   “Lord, let me now depart.

   “Now hath Thy servant seen
   Thy saving health, O Lord;
’Tis time that I depart in peace,
   According to Thy word.”

   Yet swells this pomp:  one more
   Comes forth to bless her God;
Full fourscore years, meek widow, she
   Her heaven-ward way hath troth.

   She who to earthly joys
   So long had given farewell,
Now sees, unlooked for, Heaven on earth,
   Christ in His Israel.

   Wide open from that hour
   The temple-gates are set,
And still the saints rejoicing there
   The holy Child have met.

   Now count His train to-day,
   Auth who may meet Him, learn:
Him child-like sires, meek maidens find,
   Where pride can nought discern.

   Still to the lowly soul
   He doth Himself impart,
And for His cradle and His throne
   Chooseth the pure in heart.