Shall The Dead Praise Thee?

I cannot praise thee. By his instrument The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned! I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, But not for life that is not life in me; Not for a being that is less than love- A barren shoal half lifted from a sea! Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips Than carry them a heart so poor and prone! I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know- A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow. And I can bless thee too for every smart, For every disappointment, ache, and fear; For every hook thou fixest in my heart, For every burning cord that draws me near. But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave. Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: Think to me, Father, and I am a king! My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; And swift contending harmonies shall shake Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.