Poems (Jackson)/Our Angels

by Helen Hunt Jackson

OUR ANGELS.

H! not with any sound they come, or sign,
 Which fleshly ear or eye can recognize;
 No curiosity can compass or surprise
The secret of that intercourse divine
Which God permits, ordains, across the line,
  The changeless line which bars
  Our earth from other stars.

But they do come and go continually,
 Our blessed angels, no less ours than His;
 The blessed angels whom we think we miss;
Whose empty graves we weep to name or see,
And vainly watch, as once in Galilee
  One, weeping, watched in vain,
  Where her lost Christ had lain.

Whenever in some bitter grief we find,
 All unawares, a deep, mysterious sense
 Of hidden comfort come, we know not whence;
When suddenly we see, where we were blind;
Where we had struggled, are content, resigned;
  Are strong where we were weak,—
  And no more strive nor seek,—

Then we may know that from the far glad skies,
 To note our need, the watchful God has bent,
 And for our instant help has called and sent,
Of all our loving angels, the most wise
And tender one, to point to us where lies
  The path that will be best,
  The path of peace and rest.

And when we find on every sky and field
 A sudden, new, and mystic light, which fills
 Our every sense with speechless joy, and thrills
Us, till we yield ourselves as children yield
Themselves and watch the spells magicians wield,
  With tireless, sweet surprise,
  And rapture in their eyes,—

Then we may know our little ones have run
 Away for just one moment, from their play
 In heavenly gardens, and in their old way
Are walking by our side, and one by one,
At all sweet things beneath the earthly sun,
  Are pointing joyfully,
  And calling us to see!

Ah! when we learn the spirit sound and sign,
 And instantly our angels recognize,
 No weariness can tire, no pain surprise
Our souls rapt in the intercourse divine,
Which God permits, ordains, across the line,
  The changeless line which bars
  Our earth from other stars.