By Robert Whitaker (1863-1944)
Teach me the ritual that runs beyond
The rote of words, the flexing of the knee;
Let me be always, Lord of Life, with Thee!
In all my motions ready to respond
To Thy unveilings, though in Scripture conned.
Or in the mid-night’s insect melody,
The scent of bloom from desert bush or tree,
The dawn’s reflection in the blushing pond.
How shall I worship only for an hour?
How think Thee present under dome and spire
Or sense Thee in the wafer and the wine
Except the common bread and cup are Thine,
Thine shop and street, the hearth-stone and the fire,
Thine all the ministries of natural power?
Rooted and Grounded 