Poems (Van Rensselaer)/Our Dust
OUR DUST
The winds of God took up the sand
And swept and harried it through the land,
Grinding it in their whirling mills,
Dashing it on the granite hills.
And when it dropped upon the beach,
Rasping its grains there each with each,
Dragging it whither it would not go,
The tides of God rolled to and fro.
His breakers with their heavy tread
Stamped ever upon its restless bed,
And soon his blasts began once more
To scourge it up and down the shore.
Yet still the sand with hardihood
Cried upward to the throne of God:
Thou art thyself, Creator, and
We are ourselves, these grains of sand.
And swept and harried it through the land,
Grinding it in their whirling mills,
Dashing it on the granite hills.
And when it dropped upon the beach,
Rasping its grains there each with each,
Dragging it whither it would not go,
The tides of God rolled to and fro.
His breakers with their heavy tread
Stamped ever upon its restless bed,
And soon his blasts began once more
To scourge it up and down the shore.
Yet still the sand with hardihood
Cried upward to the throne of God:
Thou art thyself, Creator, and
We are ourselves, these grains of sand.