So, to the calmly gathered thought 

The innermost of truth is taught, 

The mystery dimly understood,

That love of God is love of good, 

And, chiefly, its divinest trace 

In Him of Nazareth’s holy face;

That to be saved is only this –

Salvation from our selfishness, 

From more than elemental fire,

The soul’s unsanctified desire, 

From sin itself, and not the pain 

That warns us of its chafing chain;

That worship’s deeper meaning lies

In mercy, and not sacrifice, 

Not proud humilities of sense 

And posturing of penitence, 

But Love’s unforced obedience;

That Book and Church and Day are given 

For man, not God – for earth, not heaven – 

The blessed means to holiest ends, 

Not masters, but benignant friends;

That the dear Christ dwells not afar, 

The king of some remoter star,

Listening, at times, with flattered ear 

To homage wrung from selfish fear –

But here, amidst the poor and blind, 

The bound and suffering of our kind, 

In works we do, in prayer we pray, 

Life of our life, He lives to-day.