Love Better Than Knowledge

O Thou Eternal One, look down
Upon an erring child of earth;
Thy handiwork with knowledge crown,
Or life will seem of little worth;
By Thine own light illume my way,
And turn this darkness into day.

I hear a whisper in my heart--
"Than knowledge, better far is love;
Thy knowledge here is but in part,
The perfect waits for Thee above:
Walk now by faith, and leave to me
The things now wrap'd in mystery."

Weighed down with mysteries profound
I lean upon Thy loving breast;
The great unknown still girts me round,
But Thou art mine, and here I rest;
Unsolved the mysteries remain;
But they no longer give me pain.

My finite mind may never grasp
The thought of Thy immensity;
But I Thy hand more firmly clasp--
To feel Thee near suffices me;
For Thou art knowledge, power, and love,
The same in earth and heaven above.

Joseph Horatio Chant

Joseph Horatio Chant was a Canadian poet known for his religious and nature-inspired verse. He worked as a farmer and later became an ordained Methodist minister, which influenced his poetry. Chant's work gained modest recognition for its sincere exploration of faith and the Canadian landscape, contributing to the country's early literary heritage. He lived and wrote during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Joseph Horatio Chant

Silver Tones

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

What Lasts?

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

She Dearly Loved The Flowers

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

Influence

Joseph Horatio Chant, Simple Poetry

English

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A Merognostic

I know in part, but know not all,
The part I know is known;
What know I not I hope with Paul
To know before the throne.
Till then where knowledge fails I trust
The truth God has revealed,
As known by me, forever must
Be like the truth concealed.

I know God is, tho' hid from sight,
And know He cares for me;
In blessing me He takes delight,
And I by faith can see
His skilful hand and loving heart,
In all my life's affairs,
And feel content to know but part
If He knows all my cares.

I know God gave His Son to die
A sacrifice for man,
And live all who on Him rely,
And meet His claims I can,
Yet I know not how in Him meet
The human and divine;
But God He is, and at His feet
I fall, and feel Him mine.

Nor do ...

Joseph Horatio Chant

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - November

        1.

        THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all;
        Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray;
        How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall;
        How we grow weary plodding on the way;
        Of future joy how present pain bereaves,
        Rounding us with a dark of mere decay,
        Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.

        2.

        Thou knowest all our weeping, fainting, striving;
        Thou know'st how very hard it is to be;
        How hard to rouse faint will not yet reviving;
        To do the pure thing, trusting all to thee;
        To hold thou art there, for all no face we see;
        How hard to think, through cold and dark and dearth,
        That thou art nearer ...

George MacDonald

A Mother Showing The Portrait Of Her Child.

(F.M.L.)


Living child or pictured cherub,
Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace;
And the mother, moving nearer,
Looked it calmly in the face;
Then with slight and quiet gesture,
And with lips that scarcely smiled,
Said - "A Portrait of my daughter
When she was a child."

Easy thought was hers to fathom,
Nothing hard her glance to read,
For it seemed to say, "No praises
For this little child I need:
If you see, I see far better,
And I will not feign to care
For a stranger's prompt assurance
That the face is fair."

Softly clasped and half extended,
She her dimpled hands doth lay:
So they doubtless placed them, saying -
"Little one, you must not play."
And while yet his work was growing,
This the painter's hand hath...

Jean Ingelow

The Hidden Love

O let me love my love unto myself alone,
And know my knowledge to the world unknown;
No witness to my vision call,
Beholding, unbeheld of all;
And worship Thee, with Thee withdrawn apart,
Whoeer, Whateer Thou art,
Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart.

What is it then to me
If others are inquisitive to see?
Why should I quit my place to go and ask
If other men are working at their task?
Leave my own buried roots to go
And see that brother plants shall grow;
And turn away from Thee, O Thou most Holy Light,
To look if other orbs their orbits keep aright,
Around their proper sun,
Deserting Thee, and being undone.

O let me love my love unto myself alone,
And know my knowledge to the world unknown;
And worship Thee, O hid One...

Arthur Hugh Clough

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - April.

        1.

        LORD, I do choose the higher than my will.
        I would be handled by thy nursing arms
        After thy will, not my infant alarms.
        Hurt me thou wilt--but then more loving still,
        If more can be and less, in love's perfect zone!
        My fancy shrinks from least of all thy harms,
        But do thy will with me--I am thine own.

        2.

        Some things wilt thou not one day turn to dreams?
        Some dreams wilt thou not one day turn to fact?
        The thing that painful, more than should be, seems,
        Shall not thy sliding years with them retract--
        Shall fair realities not counteract?
        The thing that was well dreamed of bliss and joy--
        Wilt thou not breathe thy life int...

George MacDonald

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - August.

        1.

        SO shall abundant entrance me be given
        Into the truth, my life's inheritance.
        Lo! as the sun shoots straight from out his tomb,
        God-floated, casting round a lordly glance
        Into the corners of his endless room,
        So, through the rent which thou, O Christ, hast riven,
        I enter liberty's divine expanse.

        2.

        It will be so--ah, so it is not now!
        Who seeks thee for a little lazy peace,
        Then, like a man all weary of the plough,
        That leaves it standing in the furrow's crease,
        Turns from thy presence for a foolish while,
        Till comes again the rasp of unrest's file,
        From liberty is distant many a mile.

        3.

George MacDonald