Poems (Craik)/Sunday Morning Bells
ROM the near city comes the clang of bells:Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells.—What if to Thee in Thine Infinity These multiform and many-colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds Round the one living truth Thou givest him—Thee? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart-worship, reach Thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ's name, Love? Forever rising in sublime increase To "Glory in the Highest,—on earth peace?"
SUNDAY MORNING BELLS.
ROM the near city comes the clang of bells:Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells.—What if to Thee in Thine Infinity These multiform and many-colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds Round the one living truth Thou givest him—Thee? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart-worship, reach Thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ's name, Love? Forever rising in sublime increase To "Glory in the Highest,—on earth peace?"