Lift up Thy Heart by Amy Carmichael

Lift Up Thy Heart
The child lay dying, and I looked and saw
Through the open nursery window, pale blue hills
In quiet folds beyond the garden wall.
And as I looked, I thought: If I could see
God’s angels standing on those blue hillsides,
With faces turned in welcome towards the child,
And hands outstretched to take her, would I toil
So hard to keep her from them? Would I not
Loose her and let her go? And then this song awoke:
“If we could see all the surrounding spaces,
Blue hills or gardens, or the common street,
Bright with the heavenly people’s welcoming faces,
Say, would we still entreat
In desperate prayer
For sojourn in the broken house of clay?
Oh, could we hear the music in the air,
Would we then toil or pray
For long imprisonment?
“If we could see the quickened powers awaken,
Each from its sheath, like buds newborn on earth,
And the free spirit, wind-swept, overtaken
By racing waves of mirth,
Jubilant spray,
Breast the great breakers of its happiness,
Would we not rise up and quietly say,
‘My God, I acquiesce;
Yea, I am well content.’”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
O thou bereaved and not comforted,
Lift up thy heart, lift up thy eyes and look
And see the things that are. A singing land
Lies there above the clouds and the grey rain:
Sighing and tears have never found the way
That leads from earth to it–nor pain, nor sin;
Baffled, they fall back on the troubled world
And walk about down here. Dost thou love rivers?
A river flows through all that goodly land.
Dost love the sunshine, and the shade of trees?
There is no night there; but lest any heat
Should hurt, the light comes filtered through the leaves
Of the immortal Tree. The flowers there,
Coloured with happiness, forget to fade;
Each fern uncurls in individual joy;
The very mosses and the lichens paint
The rocks with conscious pleasure; and the birds–
Oh, they are eagerer than even ours
To pour live joy into the air, an air
That seems alive, instinct with joy of life.
And the earth underfoot laughs softly, buds;
And the dear, shy buds smile. The children, see,
Gayer at games they are than even here,
Keener at work; for, look, the Wonder Schools
Open their secrets to them, secrets shut
Fast from us mortals. And the men and maids
Do nobler deeds than ever they had dared
To dream in limited days; for never bar
Is set to high endeavour; but to think–
So pure their thoughts–is gloriously to do,
And with swift ease. For the city is not paved
With wasted powers; no lost or futile loves
Lie like fair fallen petals on the walks
Of its great gardens; else the word that calls
Him blessed whom God, choosing out, receives
And satisfies with the pleasure of His house,
Were dust and ashes. And it never was God’s way
To feed the soul He made on vanity.
Therefore, I take it to be verity
That these things are, yea, tenfold better things,
And that our own enjoy them, they being still
Our own, not stranger folk of alien mind,
Removed, aloof. The love we knew is there,
The cheerfulness, the courage, faithfulness
To duty, and forgetfulness of self–
But perfected in holiness. And they,
Living their stainless lives in joyousness,
Are still themselves, and wait to hear thy step
(Their hearts will know it, thought a thousand thronged
Together at the door); yet they, having seen
The end of the Lord, are well content to wait.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
My soul, wait thou as they. Though silence holds
The space between us, ‘tis but for today.
Tomorrow’s near; wait thy tomorrow, my soul.
~Amy Carmichael, from Made in the Pans and Mountain Breezes