Miracle

OH! not in strange portentous wayChrist’s miracles were wrought of old,The common thing, the common clay,He touched and tinctured, and straightwayIt grew to glory manifold.

The barley loaves were daily bread,Kneaded and mixed with usual skill;No care was given, no spell was said,But when the Lord had blessed, they fedThe multitude upon the hill.

The hemp was sown ’neath common sun,Watered by common dews and rain,Of which the fishers’ nets were spun;Nothing was prophesied or doneTo mark it from the other grain.

Coarse, brawny hands let down the netWhen the Lord spake and ordered so;They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet,Just as in other days, and setTheir backs to labor, bending low;

But quivering, leaping from the lakeThe marvellous, shining burdens riseUntil the laden meshes break,And, all amazèd, no man spake,But gazed with wonder in his eyes.

So still, dear Lord, in every placeThou standest by the toiling folkWith love and pity in thy face,And givest of thy help and graceTo those who meekly bear the yoke.

Not by strange sudden change and spell,Baffling and darkening Nature’s face;Thou takest the things we know so wellAnd buildest on them thy miracle,—The heavenly on the commonplace.

The lives which seem so poor, so low,The hearts which are so cramped and dull,The baffled hopes, the impulse slow,Thou takest, touchest all, and lo!They blossom to the beautiful.

We need not wait for thunder-pealResounding from a mount of fire,While round our daily paths we feelThy sweet love and thy power to heal,Working in us thy full desire.