Osiris

O judge us kindly, Thou that judgest rightly 
All things that mortal are — 
Men that lift up weak hands unto Thee nightly 
And every wandering star. 
Thy sisters are the End and the Beginning, 
Thine is the empty hearth: 
Thine, too, the quiet sleep for all men's winning 
In kindly earth: 
And Thine, the souls that wake from sleep to sinning, 
Osiris. 

We saw Thee not, Lord, in the crowded city, 
Nor in the market-place 
Heard we the falling of Thy feet: have pity, 
Let Thy queen's hidden face 
Be softened with Thy mercy at our crying; 
Thy hand that slew painted the lotus-blossom, 
And sowed love's seed in the kind mother's bosom: 
By Philae, where Thy mortal part is lying, 
We know ye live, we know that we are dying, 
Osiris! 

Thou knowest we are weak: that we are strong 
We know not: for like waves 
We fall and shatter, and a bridal song 
Breaks music round our graves. 
We are the strings that help thy harp to sweetness. 
Alas! we only sing 
Sweet things borne down, and ruin that ends completeness, 
Lord, and our King! 
Thine is the dream, and Thine the dawn that breaks it; 
We can but dream and die. 
Thou art the song and the silence that o'ertakes it 
Ere yet the tears be dry. 
Beside the labouring kine the neatherd trudgeth, 
At noon thou mak'st red earth of him again: 
We cry against thee, "Who art thou that judgeth, 
Maker who marrest men? "