Whene’er we look, with shaded eyes
at long-since follies, dead men’s lies,
How simple yet the judgments be
what ease put them to dispatch we.
“Filoque? Ha!” the modern shrieks
“Is this of what the Gospel speaks?
And Tewahado (monophys.)
Such subtle science all this is.”
And all the fights from now to then
Seem one unbroken chain of men
who ‘gainst the Gospel constant toil
and seek the Church but to despoil.
Or ‘side despoilers, only those
who labor God, and do suppose
to ferret out the secrets hid
by One who biddest, from those here bid.
Thus do we, in our lately pride,
think somehow we escape the tide
that drags us, though we fight for air,
to drown in God and shipwreck there.
There is no diff’rence, only style,
‘tween yester’s heap, and our day’s pile.
So gird up, as did those before
who ‘gainst the wind did sweep the shore.
Think not to win the fight, ’tis won.
Think not completion: all is done.
‘Tis ours then only loud to sing,
and serve, and work, and ‘wait our King.
