  And the Lord shut him in.—Gen. vii. 16. W WAS it the Lord who shut me in Between these walls of pain? Who drew between me and the sun The darkening curtains, one by one, Cold storm and bitter rain, Hiding all happy things and fair, The flying birds, the blowing air, And bidding me to lie, All sick of heart and faint and blind, Waiting his will to loose or bind, To give or to deny? Was it the Lord who shut me in Within this place of doubt? I chose not doubt, my doubt chose me, Not unpermitted, Lord, of thee,— It had not dared without: What doubt shall venture to uprear If thou, Lord, dost forbid? Yet is it of thy blessed will That I sit questioning, grieving, chill, Nor joy as once I did? Is it the Lord that shuts me in? Then I can bear to wait! No place so dark, no place so poor, So strong and fast no prisoning door, Though walled by grievous fate, But out of it goes fair and broad An unseen pathway, straight to God, By which I mount to thee. When the same Love that shut the door Shall lift the heavy bar once more, And set the prisoner free. |
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