Thou Wert Far Off And In The Sight Of Heaven. (Hymn)

"And fell on his neck, and kissed him."

Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven
    Dead. And thy Father would not this should be;
And now thou livest, it is all forgiven;
    Think on it, O my soul, He kissèd thee!

What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford
    To cast them from thee at His sacred call,
As Mary, when she met her living Lord,
The burial spice she had prepared let fall.

O! what is death to life? One dead could well
    Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake;
Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell
    Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake.

What is the world? it is a waiting place,
    Where men put on their robes for that above.
What is the new world? 'tis a Father's face
    Beholden of His sons - the face of love.

Jean Ingelow

Jean Ingelow was an English poet and novelist known for her popular stories and poems in the 19th century. Her work, including 'Mopsa the Fairy', earned her recognition during her lifetime. She was also involved in the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Ingelow published several poetry collections, with her first in 1863, which was well-received and cemented her reputation as a poet.

Jean Ingelow

A Cottage In A Chine.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

A Dead Year.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

A Gleaning Song.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Thou Hast Been Alway Good To Me. (Hymn)

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Morn Of Guilt, An Hour Of Doom. (Hymn)

"There was darkness."

A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom -
    Shocks and tremblings dread;
All the city sunk in gloom -
    Thick darkness overhead.
An awful Sufferer straight and stark;
    Mocking voices fell;
Tremblings - tremblings in the dark,
    In heaven, and earth, and hell.

Groping, stumbling up the way,
    They pass, whom Christ forgave;
They know not what they do - they say,
    "Himself He cannot save.
On His head behold the crown
    That alien hands did weave;
Let Him come down, let Him come down,
    And we will believe!"

Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,
    Cloven rocks down hurl'd;
God's love itself doth seem to fail
    The Saviour of the world.
Dying thieves do curse and wail,
    Eithe...

Jean Ingelow

Katie, Aged Five Years.

(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,
    And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth
    With a sunbeam on her hair.

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,
    And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth
    On the sainted brow and cheek.

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,
    In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be failing,
    They, like Aaron, "hold their peace."

Jean Ingelow

Thou Hast Been Alway Good To Me. (Hymn)

"He doeth all things well."

Thou hast been alway good to me and mine
    Since our first father by transgression fell.
Through all Thy sorest judgments love doth shine -
    Lord, of a truth, Thou doest all things well.

Thou didst the food of immortality
    Compass with flame, lest he thereto should win.
But what? his doom, yet eating of that tree,
    Had been immortal life of shame and sin!

I would not last immortal in such wise;
    Desirèd death, not life, is now my song.
Through death shall I go back to Paradise,
    And sin no more - Sweet death, tarry not long!

One did prevail that closèd gate to unseal,
    Where yet th' immortalizing tree doth grow;
He shall there meet us, and once more reveal
    The fruit of life, whe...

Jean Ingelow

Mary Of Magdala. (Hymn)

"While it was yet dark."

Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set,
Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet,
Fared in the dark - woe-wan and bent was she,
'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she;
And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore,
Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more.

Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone;
Light was there within, out to the dark it shone;
With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright,
The which she beholding fell for sore affright.

Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee;
And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said,
And nought ...

Jean Ingelow

Heaven And Earth.

Turn from the grave, turn from the grave,
There's fearful mystery there;
Descend not to the shadowy tomb,
If thou wouldst shun despair.
It tells a tale of severed ties
To break the bleeding heart,
And from the "canopy of dust"
Would make it death to part.
Oh! lift the eye of faith to worlds
Where death shall never come,
And there behold "the pure in heart"
Whom God has gathered home,
Beyond the changing things of time,
Beyond the reach of care.
How sweet to view the ransomed ones
In dazzling glory there!
They seem to whisper to the loved
Who smoothed their path below,
"Weep not for us, our tears have all
Forever ceased to flow."
Take from the grave, take from the grave,
Those bright, but withering; flowers,
The spiri...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Dear Is The Lost Wife To A Lone Man's Heart. (Hymn)

"I have loved thee with an everlasting love."

Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart,
    When in a dream he meets her at his door,
And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart,
    All unresponsive on a silent shore;
Dearer, yea, more desired art thou - for thee
My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea.

More than the mother's for her sucking child;
    She wants, with emptied arms and love untold,
Her most dear little one that on her smiled
    And went; but more, I want Mine own. Behold,
I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me
Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree;

The tree of life that I won back for men,
    And planted in the city of My God.
Lift up thy head, I love thee; wherefore, then,
    Liest thou so lo...

Jean Ingelow