“Lo, I am with you alway.” Thus He spake
Girt with the zone of His disciples’ love,
And straightway, like the nascent flames that wake
Upon a placid hearth, He soars above.
Forlorn they cannot move;
Their eyes are voyaging to track the Friend
Who promised to be with them till the end.

Once, the last once, His scar-gemmed Hand He lifts,
The Hand that twined the children to His knee,
Once downward bends the pitying Eye that sifts
Our chaff and grain for all eternity:
The blue immensity
Robes its Creator in a cope of light,
A cloud receives Him from their upturned sight.

Thou “alway with us”? Do the brakes of thorn
No more entangle our tormented earth,
Do women travail less when babes are born,
Costs it less sweat for men to fight with dearth,
Is life one Eden mirth,
Moves there more laughter on the purple sea,
Or richer gold across the rippling lea?

I care not: but we know, O Friend of friends,
Thou throned above art by our weary side,
The light that upward sailed with Thee descends
To be our morn undimmed by night or tide;
And Thou, eternal Guide,
Art not content to lead us to thy goal,
But buildest heaven in the broken soul.