Poems (Greenwell)/The Question
For works with similar titles, see The Question.
THE QUESTION.
"Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee."—John xxi. 15.
Lord, didst Thou turn Thine eyes On me, and speak upon this solemn shore The words that wounded with a keen surprise Thine erring, loving servant, grieved the more That love, as doubtful of its own, should seek To put it thrice to proof; I could but speak With Him; I could but say 'Below, above Thou knowest all,—Thou knowest that I love."
But canst Thou say with Her, The Bride of ancient Song, "My soul hath found Him whom it only loveth? wilt Thou stir And quit me now for these that stand around— Am I more dear than these?" I answer, Yea, Than each, than all more dear! I could not stray From Thee, O Shepherd, skilled with silver sound Of voice and hand attuned, thy flock to please And lure them o'er the mountains, knowing best Beside what streams, beneath what spreading trees To solace them, to give their wanderings rest; Why should I ever leave Thee? which of the.se Hath charm so sure?"
"Yet hast Thou never feared To gaze on these around, lest they should grow Through fairness to thy soul too much endeared?" "Nay, this I fear not, since I learned to know A truer fairness, lighting on the Rose That doth within its folded breast enclose All fragrance, being as the soul that glows In every other flower, I wander free About this earthly garden; sweet to me Its blooms and safe! for they that of Thy wine Have tasted, will not from its strength decline For any meaner cup! they love not Thee Enough, who fear that any else should be Too much beloved!"
So spake I over bold,And knew not, Lord! that round Thy Tree of Life The serpent still doth twine with deadly fold; I knew not then the thrice-refinèd gold Was thrid with baser clay; that still the strife Goes on, till Death doth part 'twixt things accurst And things of blessing; severing best and worst That grow together—easy still to miss And hard to win—Thou knowest, Lord, of this, Thou only knowest, what are we to speak?Yet, Thou hast spoken, "Blessed are the meek," And "they that mourn are blessed." I can touch This border of Thy garment; now I know I love Thee, Lord, I will not let Thee go; I will not ask, "Are these beloved too much?" Too little, Lord! because my heart is cold In loving Thee! I make with one of old This fervent prayer. Do Thou enlarge my coast And o'er it rule Thyself! where Thou art most Beloved, is room for all! the heart grows wide That holdeth Thee! a Heaven where none doth press Upon the other, none of more or less Doth ask solicitous, for ever there Is bread enough, and fulness still to spare, And none that come depart unsatisfied."