> Of The Son of Man. Wordsworth's "The Child Is Father of the Man". Beautiful Savior, King of creation Son of God and Son of Man! He hopes that these emotions will continue throughout his life, that he will retain that pure joy of youth. Truly I'd love Thee, truly I'd serve Thee, Light of my soul, my joy, my crown. V. And Love had not been prisoned in cold stone,Nor Beauty smeared on the dead canvas so,Had not their worshipper been forced to goQuestful and restless through the world alone,Searching but finding not, till on him shoneBack from his own deep heart a chilly glowAs of a frost-nipped sunbeam, or of snowUnder a storm-dodged crescent which hath grownWasted to mockery; and beneath such gleamHis wan conceits have found an utterance,Which, had they found a true and sunny beam,Had ripened into real touch and glance—Nay more, to real deed, the Truth of all,To some perfection high and personal. As he that parts in hatred from a friendMixing with other men forgets the woeWhich anguished him when he beheld and loTwo souls had fled asunder which did bendUnder the same blue heaven! POEM; MAP; ENDNOTES; SOURCES; ABOUT “Son of man” SOURCE :: THE BIBLE Go to line 20. along with other sea-related poems and devotions in the book Psalms from the Sea by Deborah Meroff. Doubtless thine eyes have watched the sun aspireFrom that same Olivet, when back on theeFlushed upwards after some night-agonyThy proper Godhead, with a purer firePurpling thy Infinite, and in strong desireThou sattest in the dawn that was to beUplifted on our dark perplexity.Yea in thee lay thy soul, a living lyre,And each wild beauty smote it, though the soundRung to the night-winds oft and desert air;Beneath thine eyes the lily paled more fair,And each still shadow slanting on the groundLay sweetly on thee as commissioned there,So full wast thou of eyes all round and round. However, the "nature" viewpoint notes that children may be born with certain traits, as can be seen in studies of identical twins who were separated at birth. That is signaled in the poem by the word "bound.". Son of man, son of sin, son of all transgression Son of envy, son of pride, son of sick aggression. X. If Thou didst pass by Art, thou didst not scornThe souls that by such symbol yearned in vainFrom Truth and Love true nourishment to gain:On thy warm breast, so chilly and forlornFell these thy nurslings little more than bornThat thou wast anguished, and there fell a rainFrom thy blest eyelids, and in grief and painThou partedst from them yet one night and mornTo find them wholesome food and nourishmentInstead of what their blindness took for such,Laying thyself a seed in earthen rentFrom which, outspringing to the willing touch,Riseth for all thy children harvest great,For which they will all learn to bless thee yet. Ancient kings were expected to produce poetry while also being versed in warfare and statecraft. It is the mark of a continuing covenant. As the pent torrent in uneasy restUnder the griping rocks, doth ever keepA monstrous working as it lies asleepIn the round hollow of some mountain’s breast,Till where it hideth in its sweltering nestSome earthquake finds it, and its waters leapForth to the sunshine down the mighty steep,So in thee once was anguished forth the questWhereby man sought for life-power as he layUnder his own proud heart and black despairWedged fast and stifled up with loads of care,Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay;Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer,And he hath cried aloud since that same day! Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Beautiful Savior. The Son of Man suffered much though He lived without fault, He was a man well acquainted with aches, tears, and snot, with breaks and blood and not a few bruises and still He asked with a death rattle gasp, The Son of Man came to live and to give, to love and to grieve, to walk in scuffed sandles to suffer blood blisters, cuts and calluses. Thou sawest Beauty in the streaking cloudWhen grief lift up those eyelids; nor in scornBroke ever on thine eyes the purple mornAlong the cedar tops; to thee aloudSpake the night-solitude, when hushed and bowedThe earth lay at thy feet stony and worn;Loving thou markedst when the lamb unshornWas glad before thee, and amongst the crowdFamished and pent in cities did thine eyeRead strangest glory—though in human artNo record lives to tell us that thy heartBowed to its own deep beauty: deeper did lieThe burden of thy mission, even wherebyWe know that Beauty liveth where Thou art. Only . Also, note that Wordsworth was a lover of geometry, and the use of "piety" in the last line is a play on the number pi. Moreover, were there perfect harmony‘Twixt soul and Nature, we should never wasteThe precious hours in gazing, but should hasteTo assimilate her offerings, and weFrom high life-elements, as doth the tree,Should grow to higher; so what we call TasteIs a slow living as of roots encasedIn the grim chinks of some sterilityBoth cramping and withholding. “But yet the great of soul have ever beenThe first to glory in all works of art;For from the genius-form would ever dartA light of inspiration, and a sheenAs of new comings; and ourselves have seenMen of stern purpose to whose eyes would startSorrow at sight of sorrow though no heartDid riot underneath that chilly, screen;And hence we judge such utterance native toThe human soul—expression highest—best.”—Nay, it is by such sign they will pursue,Albeit unknowing, Beauty, without rest;And failing in the search, themselves will flingSpeechless before its shadow, worshipping. 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