“Lord! What Is Man That Thou Art Mindful of Him!”
Panting climbers to some barren height;
Eager chasers of some phantom light;
Emmets piling wayside domes of clay,
That, crushed to dust, the whirlwind sweeps away;
Toilers vain, O Lord, are we.
Fluttering night-birds dazzled by the day;
Wayworn travellers who have lost their way;
Miners groping slowly in the gloom;
Children sobbing round a mother’s tomb;
Blind and helpless, Lord, are we.
Flow’rets drooping in the noon-tide sun;
Autumn leaves descending one by one;
Bubbles dancing on life’s foaming wave;
Shadowy spirits hurrying to the grave;
Frail and fleeting, Lord, are we.
Trembling sparklets of immortal fire;
Infant songsters ’mid an angel choir;
Tiny parts of one complex machine
Guided by an architect unseen.
None unnoticed, Lord, by Thee.
Dewdrops glistening in a radiant love;
Diamond sand-grains registered above;
Separate nurslings of a Father’s care,
That gently numbers every silken hair,
Weak and faithless though we be.
William Selwyn.
January 1886.