Evening Prayer
Take unto Thyself, O Father!
This folded day of thine,
This weary day of mine.
Its ragged corners cut me yet.
O, still the jar and fret!
Father! do not forget
That I am tired
With this day of thine.
Breathe thy pure breath, watching Father!
On this marred day of thine,
This erring day of mine.
Wash it white of stain and spot,
O, cleanse its every blot!
Reproachful Eyes! remember not
That I have grieved thee
On this day of thine!
George Eliot
At evening once, the lowly men who loved
Our Master were found desolate, and grieved
For Him whose eyes had been the glory of
Their lives. He, silent, followed them, and joined
Himself unto their sorrow; with the voice
Of love that liveth past the end, and yearns
Like empty arms across the sepulchre,
Did comfort them. They heard, and knew Him not.
At eventide, O Lord, one trod for us
The solitary way of a great Soul;
Whereof the peril, pain, and debt, alone
He knows, who marked the road.
We watched, and held
Her in our arms of prayer. We wept, and said:
Our sister hath a heavy hurt. We bow,
And cry: The crown is buried with the Queen.
At twilight, as she, groping, sought for rest,
What solemn footfall echoed down the dark?
What tenderness that would not let her go?
And patience that Love only knoweth, paced
Silent, beside her, to the last, faint step?
What scarred Hand gently caught her as she sank?
Thou being with her, though she knew Thee not.
