I cannot praise thee. By his instrument br The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; br For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, br Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned! br br I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, br But not for life that is not life in me; br Not for a being that is less than love- br A barren shoal half lifted from a sea! br br Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships br Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: br Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips br Than carry them a heart so poor and prone! br br I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, br That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know- br A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, br Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow. br br And I can bless thee too for every smart, br For every disappointment, ache, and fear; br For every hook thou fixest in my heart, br For every burning cord that draws me near. br br But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave. br Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. br Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: br Think to me, Father, and I am a king! br br My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, br Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; br And swift contending harmonies shall shake br Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.