"KNOCKING, EVER KNOCKING."
By Harriet Beecher Stowe
KNOCKING, knocking, ever knocking!
Who is there?
'Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Ah! sweet soul, for such a wonder
Undo the door. No! that door is hard to open;
Hinges rusty, latch is broken,
Bid Him go.
Wherefore with that knocking dreary
Scare the sleep from one so weary?
Say Him, No. Knocking, knocking, ever knocking!
What! Still there?
O sweet soul, but once behold Him
With the glory crowned hair;
And those eyes so strange and tender,
Waiting there:
Open! Open! Once behold Him—
Him so fair! Did she open? Doth she? Will she?
So, as wondering we behold,
Grows the picture to a sign,
Pressed upon your soul and mine;
For in every breast that liveth
Is that strange, mysterious door;
Tho forsaken and betangled,
Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled
Dusty, rusty, and forgotten—
There the pierced hand still knocketh,
And with ever-patient watching,
With the sad eyes true and tender,
With the glory crowned hair—
Still a God is waiting there.
—Harriet Beecher Stowe.