From those who make their arm their god,
Turn from the kindling of their flame,
From mammon struck from Caesar’s gold,
A breathless wind, without a name.
The weavings of a weary mind,
Hour upon hour of endless thought,
Are torn now in my folded hands,
In stillness, all my battles fought.
No more to worship at my will,
I cast upon my God my care,
God my delight alone, the seal-stone rolled away,
An angel seated there.