That’s it. Doubt’s very soul of doubt
Lies here. Is God just faith in God,
Or can God work His will without
Our human faith? Is flesh and blood
Made by, or maker of, the mind
That works upon the mass of things
Inanimate? Has this wild wind
A master, riding on its wings
His chosen way, or is it free
Of any but its own mad will
To sweep in wanton liberty
Over the patient earth, and spill
Destruction, breaking hearts and homes,
A drunken thing without a plan
Or purpose anywhere? It comes
To that at last. Is mortal man
Fated to fight a senseless world
Of blind material force alone,
By its haphazard powers hurled
This way and that, until his own
Small wit in desperation finds
A way to short uncertain Peace?
Around this core of doubt thought winds
Its endless coil, seeking release,
And, finding none, for ever binds
Its meshes tighter round the soul.
The preachers blame our. lack of faith
For all our human ills, but why?
Does God depend on man? “Thus saith
The Lord omnipotent,” they cry.
Aye, God for ever says, but we
Must do, and how? We lack the power,
And from the task’s immensity
Reel back in fear, as hour by hour
It grows, and frowning peak on peak
The evil mountains rise ahead.
We stumble on bewildered, weak,
Half blind, trusting what we have read
Of God, that legendary Love
Urgent to help us, and redeem
Our souls, a Love we cannot prove,
But shut out aching eyes and dream
It true. Could any God endure
The sight unmoved and silent still?
Would not a real God assure
Our doubts, and work His mighty
Will Without our faith? So many wrecks;
Wrecked faith, wrecked hope, wrecked love, wrecked dreams;
And still we bow our helpless necks
To meet the storm. God’s silence seems
Decisive. God is only faith
In God, and when Faith dies, God dies,
And Hope, a homeless weeping wraith,
Beats on her shrivelled breasts, and cries,
Refusing to be comforted,
Because her little ones are dead,
All dead.
And yet—and yet—doubt may deceive,
Joy may give truer thought than grief.
It may be so, Lord, I believe,
In mercy help mine unbelief.