We look around, the murky sky is still;

No answering sunbeam pierces. Clouds lie curl'd

Upon the dull horizon. Dark is His will

Who yet hath made us, and His ensigns furl'd.

Ah, if His speaking thunders were but hurl'd

Adown the sullen silence! but we stand,

Holding our puny thread with faithless hand

Pull'd from the grand disorder of the world.

What use, what use to hold so small a thing,

Loosed from the tangled web of giant wrong?

Let purpose perish and dear hope take wing!

So cry we. But the angels say, 'Be strong!

None other threads than these go weave the hem

Of GOD's own garment; so He treasures them!'