For what we to ourselves have done,
We who are miracles divine,
Flares from a universal sun,
Or lees from an Olympian wine;
For the abuse of laughter,
And tears that follow after;
For love betrayed, and hope delayed:
Cry we mercy, God!
For what we to ourselves have said:
"Thou hast much goods; peace, O my Soul,
Nor fret if beggars cry for bread,
And show their rags in hope of dole.
God giveth thee much pleasure,
Want is the poor man's measure!"
For all of these dark heresies:
Cry we mercy, God!
For what we on ourselves have wrought—
Wild havoc with the weird, grotesque,
Abortive images of thought,
Making of beauty the burlesque;
For much pretence in praying;
And little heart at playing;
For smothered smiles and countless guiles:
Cry we mercy, God!
For casting dice where Jesus bleeds
Upon His cross, naked, alone;
Unheedful in the noise of creeds
Of Him and His last dying moan;
For Rahab robed in scarlet,
Cursed with the title, "Harlot,"
By the decrees of Pharisees:
Cry we mercy, God!
For the delight of out-of-doors
Missed in our minsters made of stone,
Unmindful that pure incense pours
To Thee from wild rose-petals blown
Down forest-aisles; that altar fires
Burn in the sunset on the hills,
And from the pine-wood's ancient spires
The varied chime of evening fills
All hearts with rapture; for the light
Lost on white lilies, and the blue
Of heaven wasted, the dear night
With her gold stars and silver dew
Neglected. Oh, for what we fail
To find from life so rich and fair—
The rain, the snow, the sleet, the hail,
Summer, and blossom-breathing air;
For every useless sorrow,
And fears for the to-morrow,
Not knowing Thee, great Deity:
Cry we mercy, God!