Just beyond the reach of thought,
Just beyond the grasp of mind
Is a sense of Presence—fraught
With blessing—felt, yet undefined.
At times it seems a wondrous power—
A strength, awaiting Faith’s command—
For trusting soul, a proffered dower,
That’s held by Love’s omniscient hand.
Is it the gift, reserved of God
For those whom Faith brings nearest Him?—
The power that smote the rock?—the rod
That rives the fountain’s brim,
That all His thirsty souls may drink?
“O, ye of little faith,” He cries—
So many faithless Peters sink,
And the proffered power dies.