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And trembles at the fiery glow;
And yet I whisper—"As God will ! ”
And in the hottest fire, hold still.
He comes and lays my heart, all heated,
On the hard anvil, minded so
Into His own fair shape to beat it,
With His own hammer, blow on blow;
And yet I whisper—“As God will !”
And at His heaviest blows, hold still.
He takes my softened heart, and beats it -
The sparks fly off at every blow :
He turns it o’er and o'er, and heats it,
And lets it cool, and makes it glow;
And yet I whisper—“As God will !”
And in the mighty hand, hold still.
Why should I murmur? for the sorrow
Thus only longer lived would be ;
Its end may come, and will, to-morrow,
When God has done His work in me.
So I say, trusting -“As God will !”
And trusting to the end, hold still.
He kindles for my profit purely
Affliction's glowing, fiery brand,
And all His heaviest blows are surely
Inflicted by a Master's hand;
So I say, praying, “As God will ! ”
And hope in Him and suffer still.
(From the German.)
In golden youth, when seems the earth
A summer land of singing mirth,
When souls are glad and hearts are light,
And not a shadow lurks in sight,
We do not know it, but there lies
Veiled somewhere under evening skies.
A garden which we all must see
The garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways,
Love lends a halo to our days;
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar ;
We laugh, and say how strong we are.
We hurry on; and hurrying, go
Close to the border-land of woe
That waits for you and waits for me —
Forever waits Gethsemane.
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams
Bridged over by our broken dreams,
Behind the misty capes of years,
Beyond the great salt fount of tears,
The garden lies. Strive as you may,
You cannot miss it in your way.
All paths that have been or shall be
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.
All those who journey soon or late
Must pass within the garden's gate;
Must kneel alone in darkness there,
And battle with some fierce despair.
God pity those who cannot say,
“Not mine but thine”; who only pray,
“Let this cup pass,” and cannot see
The purpose in Gethsemane.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH
Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the flyers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look! the land is bright.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
THEY told me I was heir ; I turned in haste,
And ran to seek my treasure,
And wondered, as I ran, how it was placed, -
If I should find a measure
Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands
And houses would be laid within my hands.
I journeyed many roads; I knocked at gates ;
I spoke to each wayfarer
I met, and said, “ A heritage awaits
Me. Art not thou the bearer
Of news? some message sent to me whereby
I learn which way my new possessions lie ?”
Some asked me in; naught lay beyond their door :
Some smiled, and would not tarry,
But said that men were just behind who bore
More gold than I could carry; .
And so the morn, the noon, the day, were spent,
While empty-handed up and down I went.
At last one cried, whose face I could not see,
As through the mists he hasted:
“Poor child! what evil ones have hindered thee
Till this whole day is wasted ?
Hath no man told thee that thou art joint heir
With one named Christ, who waits the goods to share ?"
The one named Christ I sought for many days,
In many places vainly ; '.
I heard men name his name in many ways;
I saw his temples plainly;
But they who named him most gave me no sign
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine.
And when at last I stood before his face,
I knew him by no token
Save subtle air of joy which filled the place ;
Our greeting was not spoken;
In solemn silence I received my share,
Kneeling before my brother and “joint heir.”
My share ! No deed of house or spreading lands,
As I had dreamed; no measure
Heaped up with gold : my elder brother's hands
Had never held such treasure.
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed :
My brother had not where to lay his head.
My share! The right like him to know all pain
Which hearts are made for knowing;
The right to find in loss the surest gain;
To reap my joy from sowing
In bitter tears; the right with him to keep
A watch by day and night with all who weep.
My share! To-day men call it grief and death;
I see the joy and life to-morrow;
I thank my Father with my every breath,
For this sweet legacy of sorrow;
And through my tears I call to each “joint heir”
With Christ: “Make haste to ask him for thy share.”
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
BRINGING OUR SHEAVES The time for toil is past, and night has come,
The last and saddest of the harvest eves ;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers, Thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;
Master, behold my sheaves ! Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves ; Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet I kneel down reverently and repeat:
“Master, behold my sheaves !”.
Few, light, and worthless ; yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my helpless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,
Yet these are all my sheaves.
And yet I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do;
And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLORENCE PERCY).
FOLLOW ME The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain, And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head; And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain, And the smile has scarcely Aitted ere the anguished tear is shed. For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear, And those lips cannot be human which have never heaved a sigh; For without the dreary winter there has never been a year, And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest summer sky. So this dreamy life is passing - and we move amidst its maze, And we grope along together, half in darkness, half in light; And our hearts are often burdened with the mysteries of our ways, Which are never all in shadow, and are never wholly bright. And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a guide, And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning and the key ; And a cross gleams o'er our pathway, on it hangs the Crucified, And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, “ Follow Me."
ABRAM T. RYAN (A Thought).
HOPE, FAITH, LOVE
THERE are three lessons I would write —
Three words as with a burning pen,
In tracings of eternal light
Upon the hearts of men.
Have hope. Though clouds environ now,
And gladness hides her face in scorn,
Put thou the shadow from thy brow —
No night but hath its morn.
Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven,
The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth,
Know this — God rules the host of heaven,
The inhabitants of earth.
Have love. Not love alone for one,
But man, as man, thy brothers all ;
And scatter, like the circling sun,
Thy charities on all.
Thus grave these lessons on thy soul —
Hope, Faith, and Love — and thou shalt find
Strength when life's surges rudest roll,
Light when thou else wert blind.
(From the German of Schiller.)