Sonnet

THEY say — I count, it truth — a master’s hand
That swept the strings of his loved instrument,
While all the mighty soul of him was bent
To catch the inspiration, in one grand,
Supreme attempt to answer the demand
Of Spirit, snapped the chords whereon it leant
Too heavily, save one ; yet through that went
Unstayed the message all might understand !

So when the Almighty breathes upon his seer
And fain would speak to men, with awful pain
The heartstrings thrilling, ringing loud and clear,
Snap one by one, unequal to the strain :
But, God’s a Master-Player, — ye shall hear
His truth though only one weak chord remain.

David W. M. Burn.