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.