The Liturgy

Oft as I hear the Apostolic voice
Speaking to God, I blame my heart so cold
That with those words, so good, so pure, and old,
Cannot repent nor hope, far less rejoice.
Yet am I glad, that not the vagrant choice,
Chance child of impulse, timid, or too bold.
The volume of the heart may dare unfold
With figured rhetoric, or unmeaning noise.
Praying for all in those appointed phrases,
Like a vast river, from a thousand fountains,
Swoll'n "with the waters of the lakes and mountains.
The pastor bears along the prayers and praises
Of many souls in channel well defined,
Yet leaves no drop of prayer or praise behind.