The smoke went up, the Living Flame
came down
The priest before the incense altar
stands
And sees God’s promise here made
visible
Bringing such truth he barely
understands.
The promise and the prayer – see how
they weave
One beauty of the Father’s great
design;
Yet he, who has been trained to
holy things
Finds fear and doubt towards the
holy sign.
I have not met with angels (that I
know)
Yet I, too, offer prayers past my
belief
And stand on Holy Ground with
careless feet,
And my presumption is my faith’s
great thief.
Have mercy, Lord, to us, the called-in-Christ,
To whom a royal priesthood has been
given,
That this small faith, this
trembling mustard seed,
May joy in hope for that for which
it’s striven.
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