Amy Carmichael Poetry

The Age-Long Minute
Thou art the Lord who slept upon the pillow;
Thou art the Lord who soothed the furious sea.
What matter beating wind and tossing billow
If only we are in the boat with Thee?

Hold us in quiet through the age-long minute,
While Thou art silent and the wind is shrill;
Can the boat sink while Thou, Dear Lord, art in it?
Can the heart faint that waiteth on Thy will?

The Shell
Upon the sandy shore an empty shell,
Beyond the shell infinity of sea;
O Saviour, I am like that empty shell;
Thou art the Sea to me.
A sweeping wave rides up the shore, and, lo,
Each dim recess the coiled shell within
Is searched, is filled, is filled to overflow
By water crystalline.
Not to the shell is any glory then:
All glory give we to the glorious sea.
And not to me is any glory when
Thou overflowest me.
Sweep over me, Thy shell, as low I lie,
I yield me to the purposes of Thy will;
Sweep up, O conquering waves, and purify,
And with Thy fullness fill.

Teach Us To Pray
Lord Jesus, Intercessor, O teach us how to pray:
Not wave-like, rising, falling, in fitful clouds of spray.
The mighty tides of ocean a deeper secret know,
Their currents undefeated move whatever winds may blow.

Lord Jesus, Intercessor, Creator of the sea,
Teach us the tide’s great secret of quiet urgency.
Spindrift of words we ask not. But, Lord, we seek to know
The conquering patience of the tides whatever winds may blow.