A Portrait, Maurice Nicoll
In the dead of night,
In the dark of the Moon
I beheld Thy Might
And craved a boon.
Not in thunder nor in storm-wind
Did'st Thou answer
But in the stillness of pure meaning.
Then I knew if the boon were granted
I would die comfortably
The most terrible death of all
Which is spiritual death.
Like a single chord of vast music
Containing all inexpressible divine truth
It entered the limitations of my language.
It became words -- as once before:
'My grace is sufficient for thee
Because my strength is made perfect in thy weakness.'
So I understand that when a man can do nothing
And when he comes to that far knowledge
Only then is Thy divine power recognized
And his soul freed to turn to Thee.
In the dead of night,
In the dark of the Moon
I beheld Thy Might
And craved a boon.
Not in thunder nor in storm-wind
Did'st Thou answer
But in the stillness of pure meaning.
Then I knew if the boon were granted
I would die comfortably
The most terrible death of all
Which is spiritual death.
Like a single chord of vast music
Containing all inexpressible divine truth
It entered the limitations of my language.
It became words -- as once before:
'My grace is sufficient for thee
Because my strength is made perfect in thy weakness.'
So I understand that when a man can do nothing
And when he comes to that far knowledge
Only then is Thy divine power recognized
And his soul freed to turn to Thee.