 L. Caracci pinx.W. Raddon sculp.
THE INCREDULITY OF ST. THOMAS.
FISHER, SON & CO. LONDON, 1834 |
THE INCREDULITY OF ST. THOMAS.
"But Thomas, one of the twelve, called Didymus, was not with them when Jesus came.
"The other disciples therefore said unto him, We have seen the Lord. But he said unto them, Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe.
"And after eight days, again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them; then came Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto you.
"Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands, and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing.
"And Thomas answered and said unto him, My Lord, and my God.
"Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed."
John xx. 24-29.
Still doth that spirit linger upon earth;
Still the vain doubt has in delusion birth.
We hesitate, we cavil, we deny,
And ask, though all things answer in reply;
All nature echoes with one mighty Yes,
And only man will not his God confess.
Yet read him in his works, yon radiant sea,
Glassing the heaven's blue tranquillity;
Noon on the waters, noon within the skies,
No cloud to shadow, and no wave to rise.
Now is thy triumph, man, unroll the sail,
Like the white meteor, glancing on the gale
Go, ride the billows, sweep before the wind,
And say, this is the mastery of the mind:
I gave those planks their shape to cut the seas
I taught that canvass how to catch the breeze,
I guide the helm which tracks the pathless brine,
The work of my own hands, the ship is mine.
'Tis early evening, round the sinking sun,
The shadowy clouds have gather'd one by one,
The waves are running high, and o'er them sweep
The spectral seabirds, phantoms of the deep,
Over their pale white wings the surges break;
And with the wild wind blends their wilder shriek.
The mighty tempest rushes o'er the main
With thunder, and with lightning, and with rain.
The strong ship trembles; to the deep they throw
The thunder that was destined for the foe.
The tall mast falls, as once before it fell,
When came the woodman to the forest dell.
In vain the billows whelm the sinking prow;
O, man, art thou the lord of ocean now?
But let us trace Him in some milder form
Than the dread lessons of the sea and storm;
It is the end of March, and, over earth,
Sunshine is calling beauty into birth.
There is a fragrance on the soft warm air;
For many the sweet breaths now floating there.
The snowdrop is departed, that pale child,
Which at the spring's bright coming seems exiled,
Cold, like a flower carved on a funeral stone,
Born with the snows, and with the snows is gone.
And, in its place, daisies, rose-touched, unfold—
Small fairies, bearing each a gift of gold;
And violets, like a young child's eyes of blue;
Ah, spring and childhood only know that hue;
The violet wears a dimmer shade; the eye
Grows tear-stained, as the year and life pass by.
But now the wheat and grass are green, therein
The grasshopper and lark their nests begin;
The purple clover round them, like a bower.
Now doth the apple tree put forth its flower,
Lined with faint crimson; the laburnum bends
'Neath the bright gold that from each bough descends;
Her graceful foliage forth the ash has flung;
The aspen trembles: are its leaves so young
That the sweet wind doth scare them, though it bear
No ruder breath than flowers breathe through the air?
A lulling sound where thyme and wild-heaths blow,
Tells that the bee has there its Mexico.
One note of natural music, that which now
Haunts the deep grass, the sky, the brook, the bough.
Deep in the woodland sits the thrush and sings,
The sunshine dancing on its dusky wings,
When the wind stirs the branches, and a ray
Lights the dim glades scarce conscious of the day.
Are not these beautiful, these hours which bring
Its leaves and flowers, its breath and bloom to spring?
And yet, proud man, what hast thou here to do?
Owes it one leaf, one breath, one bloom to you?
Almighty God! and if thou couldst depart
And leave no image in the darkened heart,
What hope would be for earth, to soothe or save,
Life, a brief struggle ending in the grave.
No soul to elevate our wretched dust,
No faith to triumph in its sacred trust,
First fever, then oblivion, and the tomb,
Eternal and unconquerable gloom.
"Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief."
Let there be hope in toil, and joy in grief;
Teach us on nature's glorious face to look,
As if it were thine own immortal book;
Teach us to read thee in thy works, and find
Their evidence of thine Almighty mind.
Keep us, till in the grave, with hope divine,
We sink rejoicing that we now are thine.