Now these were Jews as Jews may be (_The bells ring merry and the bells ring free_). But Christian men in a band are we (Carillon, Carilla). Empty we go, and ill be-dight, Singing Noel on a Winter’s night. Give us to sup by the warm firelight, And the small child Jesus smile on you. AFTER A RETREAT BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON What hast thou learnt to-day? Hast thou sounded awful mysteries, Hast pierced the veiléd skies, Climbed to the feet of God, Trodden where saints have trod, Fathomed the heights above? _Nay, This only have I learnt, that God is love._ What hast thou heard to-day? Hast heard the Angel-trumpets cry, And rippling harps reply; Heard from the Throne of flame Whence God incarnate came Some thund’rous message roll? _Nay, This have I heard, His voice within my soul._ What hast thou felt to-day? The pinions of the Angel-guide That standeth at thy side In rapturous ardours beat, Glowing, from head to feet, In ecstasy divine? _Nay, This only have I felt, Christ’s hand in mine._ THE TERESIAN CONTEMPLATIVE BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON She moves in tumult; round her lies The silence of the world of grace; The twilight of our mysteries Shines like high noonday on her face; Our piteous guesses, dim with fears, She touches, handles, sees, and hears. In her all longings mix and meet; Dumb souls through her are eloquent; She feels the world beneath her feet Thrill in a passionate intent; Through her our tides of feeling roll And find their God within her soul. Her faith and awful Face of God Brightens and blinds with utter light; Her footsteps fall where late He trod; She sinks in roaring voids of night; Cries to her Lord in black despair, And knows, yet knows not, He is there. A willing sacrifice she takes The burden of our fall within; Holy she stands; while on her breaks The lightning of the wrath of sin; She drinks her Saviour’s cup of pain, And, one with Jesus, thirsts again. HOW SHALL I BUILD BY WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT How shall I build my temple to the Lord, Unworthy I, who am thus foul of heart? How shall I worship who no traitor word Know but of love to play a suppliant’s part? How shall I pray, whose soul is as a mart, For thoughts unclean, whose tongue is as a sword Even for those it loves, to wound and smart? Behold how little I can help Thee, Lord. The Temple I would build should be all white, Each stone the record of a blameless day; The souls that entered there should walk in light, Clothed in high chastity and wisely gay. Lord, here is darkness. Yet this heart unwise, Bruised in Thy service, take in sacrifice. SONG BY WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT