Read The Life and Words of GK Chesterton for Free Online Page B

well."
     
    Strove the cunning men and strong,
    But a little and they cry,
    "Lord, mayhap we are but clay,
    And we cannot know the why,"
    And the wise men doubt to-day.
     
    Yet though worn and deaf and blind,
    Force and savage, king and seer
    Labour still, they know not why;
    At the dim foundation here,
    Knead and plough and think and ply.
     
    Till at last, mayhap, hereon,
    Fused of passion and accord,
    Love its crown and peace its stay
    Rise the city of the Lord
    That we darkly build to-day.

A Hymn for the Church Militant

Great God, that bowest sky and star,
    Bow down our towering thoughts to thee,
    And grant us in a faltering war
    The firm feet of humility.
     
    Lord, we that snatch the swords of flame,
    Lord, we that cry about Thy car.
    We too are weak with pride and shame,
    We too are as our foemen are.
     
    Yea, we are mad as they are mad,
    Yea, we are blind as they are blind,
    Yea, we are very sick and sad
    Who bring good news to all mankind.
     
    The dreadful joy Thy Son has sent
    Is heavier than any care;
    We find, as Cain his punishment,
    Our pardon more than we can bear.
     
    Lord, when we cry Thee far and near
    And thunder through all lands unknown
    The gospel into every ear,
    Lord, let us not forget our own.
     
    Cleanse us from ire of creed or class,
    The anger of the idle tings;
    Sow in our souls, like living grass,
    The laughter of all lowly things.

The Beatific Vision

Then Bernard smiled at me, that I should gaze
    But I had gazed already; caught the view,
    Faced the unfathomable ray of rays
    Which to itself and by itself is true.
     
    Then was my vision mightier than man's speech;
    Speech snapt before it like a flying spell;
    And memory and all that time can teach
    Before that splendid outrage failed and fell.
     
    As when one dreameth and remembereth not
    Waking, what were his pleasures or his pains,
    With every feature of the dream forgot,
    The printed passion of the dream remains:—
     
    Even such am I; within whose thoughts resides
    No picture of that sight nor any part
    Nor any memory: in whom abides
    Only a happiness within the heart,
     
    A secret happiness that soaks the heart
    As hills are soaked by slow unsealing snow,
    Or secret as that wind without a chart
    Whereon did the wild leaves of Sibyl go.
     
    O light uplifted from all mortal knowing,
    Send back a little of that glimpse of thee.
    That of its glory I may kindle glowing
    One tiny spark for all men yet to be.

The Truce of Christmas

Passionate peace is in the sky—
    And in the snow in silver sealed
    The beasts are perfect in the field,
    And men seem men so suddenly—
    (But take ten swords and ten times ten
    And blow the bugle in praising men;
    For we are for all men under the sun,
    And they are against us every one;
    And misers haggle and madmen clutch,
    And there is peril in praising much.
    And we have the terrible tongues uncurled
    That praise the world to the sons of the world.)
     
    The idle humble hill and wood
    Are bowed upon the sacred birth,
    And for one little hour the earth
    Is lazy with the love of good—
    (But ready are you, and ready am I,
    If the battle blow and the guns go by;
    For we are for all men under the sun,
    And they are against us every one;
    And the men that hate herd all together,
    To pride and gold, and the great white feather
    And the thing is graven in star and stone
    That the men who love are all alone.)
     
    Hunger is hard and time is tough,
    But bless the beggars and kiss the kings,
    For hope has broken the heart of things,
    And nothing was ever praised enough.
    (But bold the shield for a sudden swing
    And point the sword when you praise a thing,
    For we are for all men under the sun,
    And they are against us every one;
    And mime and merchant, thane and thrall
    Hate us because we love them all;
    Only till Christmastide go by
    Passionate peace is in the sky.)

A Hymn

O God of earth and altar,
    Bow down and hear our cry
    Our earthly rulers falter,
    Our people drift and die;
    The walls of gold entomb