Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.----Paul, Romans 8:18----
It is one thing to read in Hopkins or in Scripture words that encourage us, that help us to carry on. But another thing entirely to find there words that echo the scream and song of our heart at the very moment. Then I know that Hopkins, and Paul, and their God all have felt and wept like me. It is in knowing this that my heart laps strength and steals joy and laughs and cheers.