The Blessed Meek

Who scorns the lifted hand of God,
who woos revenge and curses fate,
he rides the stallion of hate.
Who spits upon the fertile sod
and casts faith's tiny seedlings out,
he rides the stallion of doubt.
Who beats himself with pity's rod
and blames his life on circumstance,
he rides the stallion of chance.
The crooked road and treacherous way,
the marshmud sucking at the hoof,
the thickly tangled, thieving wood,
the burst into the blinding day--
the Devil tramples at our side
who join that dusty, furious ride.  


II

Deliver me, deliver me,
oh Lord who rode a lowly beast!
May I ride meekly to Thy feast,
and gently jog through sun and shade
and see the pattern of each field
counting the blessing of its yield
and love each leaf that Thou hast made,
and wait with peace the dazzling light,
the final, swift, eternal flight,
the sweet dark channels of the night.