A Hidden Life

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BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.


A quiet heart, submissive, meek,

  Father do thou bestow; Which more than granted will not seek

  To have, or give, or know.

Each green hill then will hold its gift

  Forth to my joying eyes; The mountains blue will then uplift

  My spirit to the skies.

The falling water then will sound

  As if for me alone; Nay, will not blessing more abound

  That many hear its tone?

The trees their murmuring forth will send,

  The birds send forth their song; The waving grass its tribute lend,

  Sweet music to prolong.

The water-lily's shining cup,

  The trumpet of the bee, The thousand odours floating up,

  The many-shaded sea;

The rising sun's imprinted tread

  Upon the eastward waves; The gold and blue clouds over head;

  The weed from far sea-caves;

All lovely things from south to north,

  All harmonies that be, Each will its soul of joy send forth

  To enter into me.

And thus the wide earth I shall hold,

  A perfect gift of thine; Richer by these, a thousandfold,

  Than if broad lands were mine.





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