by Arthur Conan Doyle

Arthur Conan Doyle

Faith may break on reason,
Faith may prove a treason
to that highest gift
that is granted by Thy grace;
but hope! Ah, let us cherish
some spark that may not perish,
some tiny spark to cheer us,
as we wander through the waste!
A little lamp beside us,
a little lamp to guide us,
where the path is rocky;
where the road is steep;
that when the light falls dimmer,
still some God-sent glimmer
may hold us steadfast ever,
to the track that we should keep.
Hope for the trending of it,
hope for the ending of it,
hope for all around us,
that it ripens in the sun.
Hope for what is waning,
hope for what is gaining,
hope for what is waiting
when the long day is done.
Hope that He, the nameless
may still be best and blameless,
nor ever end His highest
with the earthworm and the slime.
Hope that o'er the border
there lies a land of order,
with higher law to reconcile
the lower laws of time.
Hope that every vexed life
finds within the next life
something that may recompense
something that may cheer.
And that perchance the lowest one
is truly but the slowest one,
quickened by the sorrow
which is waiting for him here.

Last updated January 14, 2019