The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 7.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

[299] O Bearer of the key
     That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet
Its turning in the wards is melody,
     All things we move among are incomplete
And vain until we fashion them in Thee!
     We labor in the fire,
Thick smoke is round about us; through the din
     Of words that darken counsel clamors dire
Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where within
     Two Giants toil, that even from their birth
With travail-pangs have torn their mother Earth,
     And wearied out her children with their keen
Upbraidings of the other, till between
     Thou camest, saying, “Wherefore do ye wrong Each other—ye are Brethren.
” Then these twain
Will own their kindred, and in Thee retain
     Their claims in peace, because Thy land is wide
As it is goodly here they pasture free,
     This lion and this leopard, side by side,
A little child doth lead them with a song;
     Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no more
Doth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore,
     For one did ask a Brother, one a King,
So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring—
     Thou, King forevermore, forever Priest,
Thou, Brother of our own from bonds released-
     A Law of Liberty,
A Service making free,
     A Commonweal where each has all in Thee.

And not alone these wide,
     Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cry
Their meat from God, in Thee are satisfied;
     But all our instincts waking suddenly
Within the soul, like infants from their sleep
     That stretch their arms into the dark and weep,
Thy voice can still. The stricken heart bereft
     Of all its brood of singing hopes, and left
'Mid leafless boughs, a cold, forsaken nest
     With snow-flakes in it, folded in Thy breast
Doth lose its deadly chill; and grief that creeps
     Unto Thy side for shelter finding there
The wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan, and weeps
     Calm, quiet tears, and on Thy forehead Care