Lift Up Thy Heart

The child lay dying, and I looked and saw

Through the open nursery window, pale blue hills

In quiet folds beyond the garden wall.

And as I looked, I thought: If I could see

God’s angels standing on those blue hillsides,

With faces turned in welcome towards the child,

And hands outstretched to take her, would I toil

So hard to keep her from them? Would I not

Loose her and let her go? And then this song awoke:

“If we could see all the surrounding spaces,

Blue hills or gardens, or the common street,

Bright with the heavenly people’s welcoming faces,

Say, would we still entreat

In desperate prayer

For sojourn in the broken house of clay?

Oh, could we hear the music in the air,

Would we then toil or pray

For long imprisonment?

“If we could see the quickened powers awaken,

Each from its sheath, like buds newborn on earth,

And the free spirit, wind-swept, overtaken

By racing waves of mirth,

Jubilant spray,

Breast the great breakers of its happiness,

Would we not rise up and quietly say,

‘My God, I acquiesce;

Yea, I am well content.’”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

O thou bereaved and not comforted,

Lift up thy heart, lift up thy eyes and look

And see the things that are. A singing land

Lies there above the clouds and the grey rain:

Sighing and tears have never found the way

That leads from earth to it–nor pain, nor sin;

Baffled, they fall back on the troubled world

And walk about down here. Dost thou love rivers?

A river flows through all that goodly land.

Dost love the sunshine, and the shade of trees?

There is no night there; but lest any heat

Should hurt, the light comes filtered through the leaves

Of the immortal Tree. The flowers there,

Coloured with happiness, forget to fade;

Each fern uncurls in individual joy;

The very mosses and the lichens paint

The rocks with conscious pleasure; and the birds–

Oh, they are eagerer than even ours

To pour live joy into the air, an air

That seems alive, instinct with joy of life.

And the earth underfoot laughs softly, buds;

And the dear, shy buds smile. The children, see,

Gayer at games they are than even here,

Keener at work; for, look, the Wonder Schools

Open their secrets to them, secrets shut

Fast from us mortals. And the men and maids

Do nobler deeds than ever they had dared

To dream in limited days; for never bar

Is set to high endeavour; but to think–

So pure their thoughts–is gloriously to do,

And with swift ease. For the city is not paved

With wasted powers; no lost or futile loves

Lie like fair fallen petals on the walks

Of its great gardens; else the word that calls

Him blessed whom God, choosing out, receives

And satisfies with the pleasure of His house,

Were dust and ashes. And it never was God’s way

To feed the soul He made on vanity.

Therefore, I take it to be verity

That these things are, yea, tenfold better things,
And that our own enjoy them, they being still

Our own, not stranger folk of alien mind,

Removed, aloof. The love we knew is there,

The cheerfulness, the courage, faithfulness

To duty, and forgetfulness of self–

But perfected in holiness. And they,

Living their stainless lives in joyousness,

Are still themselves, and wait to hear thy step

(Their hearts will know it, thought a thousand thronged

Together at the door); yet they, having seen

The end of the Lord, are well content to wait.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My soul, wait thou as they. Though silence holds

The space between us, ‘tis but for today.

Tomorrow’s near; wait thy tomorrow, my soul.

~Amy Carmichael, from Made in the Pans and Mountain Breezes