In stately halls your pictures stand,
Each painted by your loving hand.
Your acts of mercy framed in wood,
Retelling all your works of good.
Some statues carved in forms of man
Who carried out your holy plan.
A golden floor and marble wall,
Your strength and glory seen by all.
Hung up high are tales of pain
And struggles through dark nights of rain.
Famine, exile, prison too,
In hope the pris’ners wait for you.
A wooden manger stands alone
Recalling where your glory shone—
A cross, a tomb, a linen fold,
Through death to life your story told.
Beyond the linen fold there sits
Twelve men with flames, the last portraits.
Long do these stately halls go on,
But paintings on the walls are gone.
Yet people through the halls still walk
And of the missing art still talk.
They seem to see what is not there.
They stop. They point. They look. They stare.
At first I thought these people odd,
Pretending at some art to nod,
But as I wandered through halls long
Past missing art and wand’ring throng,
I wondered if my eyes were blind
Or if I was just dim of mind.
How can I see your hist’ry past,
Those works you’ve done that long will last,
But still not see your present art,
The work that shows how you impart
To men that live in modern day
Protection all along life’s way,
And how the people you still guide
Through pain and joy while at their side?
You’ve given me my eyes to see
Your glory worked in history,
But now, O Lord, I want to know
Your current work so I can show
To those who after me will live
That you have never stopped to give
Yourself, your Son, your Spirit’s love
To us below, down from above.
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