Toil and Rest

Once more I take my pen in hand, once more
I lay it down, and still the page is bare.
A dullness seeps into my soul. I fear
That I have nothing left to say. I fear
My heart will finally be left as blank
As this blank page. – No, blanker yet (alas!)
As blank as these poor, naked, labored words
Betraying naked thoughts.
There was a time,
When, teeming with a thousand grand designs,
And fueled by a passion not to waste
My fleeting life, I had but one complaint, –
That time was short; each moment rushing by
I wrested to my purpose, to speak forth,
With pen and ink, the glories of the King.
I wonder – did I love in very truth
The One of whom I sang, or did I love
That I could sing? Did I delight to rest
In him, and so find strength to labor still; –
Or was my true delight to act, to do,
To labor, to paint o’er my emptiness
With lying scenes of toil for his sake,
When all it ever was (peel back the lie!)
Was toil to hide my nakedness? Fig leaves!
And all the more deceptive, that they bear
The name of Grace. But take from me my words,
And who am I? Dark thoughts! dark fearful thoughts! –
Whence coming? whence arising? my own heart?
Some evil power? or yet (may it not be!)
The truth? The truth is that my soul is dark
And heavy with a stunned timidity,
Which, seeing frantic deeds once more dissolve
As mists before the breeze, must seek again
A surer hiding-place.
Oh! yet once more,
My Savior and my God, come – run to me –
Deliver me from these oppressive thoughts –
Free me to work not “so that” but “because” –
Teach me again (O Christ!) to rest in you!

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