Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 111

In that resplendent will of thine I calmly rest; Triumphantly I make it mine, And count it best.

To doubt and gloom and care and fear I yield no jot; Thy choice I choose, with soul sincere, Thrice happy lot!

In all the small events that fall From day to day I mark thy hand, I hear thy call, And swift obey.

I walk by faith, not sense or sight; Calm faith in thee; My peace endures, my way is bright, My heart is free.

Unfaltering trust, complete content, The days ensphere, Each meal becomes a sacrament, And heaven is here.

--James Mudge.

THE TREE G.o.d PLANTS

The wind that blows can never kill The tree G.o.d plants; It bloweth east, it bloweth west, The tender leaves have little rest, But any wind that blows is best; The tree G.o.d plants Strikes deeper root, grows higher still, Spreads wider boughs, for G.o.d's good will Meets all its wants.

There is no frost hath power to blight The tree G.o.d s.h.i.+elds; The roots are warm beneath soft snows, And when Spring comes it surely knows, And every bud to blossom grows.

The tree G.o.d s.h.i.+elds Grows on apace by day and night, Till sweet to taste and fair to sight Its fruit it yields.

There is no storm hath power to blast The tree G.o.d knows; No thunderbolt, nor beating rain, Nor lightning flash, nor hurricane-- When they are spent it doth remain.

The tree G.o.d knows Through every tempest standeth fast, And from its first day to its last Still fairer grows.

If in the soul's still garden-place A seed G.o.d sows-- A little seed--it soon will grow, And far and near all men will know For heavenly lands he bids it blow.

A seed G.o.d sows, And up it springs by day and night; Through life, through death, it groweth right; Forever grows.

--Lillian E. Barr.

G.o.d'S WILL

Take thine own way with me, dear Lord, Thou canst not otherwise than bless.

I launch me forth upon a sea Of boundless love and tenderness.

I could not choose a larger bliss Than to be wholly thine; and mine A will whose highest joy is this, To ceaselessly unclasp in thine.

I will not fear thee, O my G.o.d!

The days to come can only bring Their perfect sequences of love, Thy larger, deeper comforting.

Within the shadow of this love, Loss doth trans.m.u.te itself to gain; Faith veils earth's sorrow in its light, And straightway lives above her pain.

We are not losers thus; we share The perfect gladness of the Son, Not conquered--for, behold, we reign; Conquered and Conqueror are one.

Thy wonderful, grand will, my G.o.d, Triumphantly I make it mine; And faith shall breathe her glad "Amen"

To every dear command of thine.

Beneath the splendor of thy choice, Thy perfect choice for me, I rest; Outside it now I dare not live, Within it I must needs be blest.

Meanwhile my spirit anchors calm In grander regions still than this; The fair, far-s.h.i.+ning lat.i.tudes Of that yet unexplored bliss.

Then may thy perfect glorious will Be evermore fulfilled in me, And make my life an answering chord Of glad, responsive harmony.

Oh! it is life indeed to live Within this kingdom strangely sweet; And yet we fear to enter in, And linger with unwilling feet.

We fear this wondrous will of thine Because we have not reached thy heart.

Not venturing our all on thee We may not know how good thou art.

--Jean Sophia Pigott.

Deep at the heart of all our pain, In loss as surely as in gain, His love abideth still.

Let come what will my heart shall stand On this firm rock at his right hand, "Father, it is thy will."

--John White Chadwick.

THE CARPENTER

O Lord! at Joseph's humble bench Thy hands did handle saw and plane, Thy hammer nails did drive and clench, Avoiding knot, and humoring grain.

That thou didst seem thou _wast_ indeed, In sport thy tools thou didst not use, Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need, The laborer's _hire_ too nice refuse.

Lord! might I be but as a saw, A plane, a chisel in thy hand!

No, Lord! I take it back in awe, Such prayer for me is far too grand.

I pray, O Master! let me lie, As on thy bench the favored wood; Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply, And work me into something good.

No! no! Ambition holy, high, Urges for more than both to pray; Come in, O gracious force, I cry, O Workman! share my shed of clay.

Then I at bench, or desk, or oar, With last, or needle, net, or pen, As thou in Nazareth of yore, Shall do the Father's will again.

--George Macdonald.

THE DIVINE MAJESTY

The Lord our G.o.d is clothed with might, The winds obey his will; He speaks, and in his heavenly height The rolling sun stands still.

Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land With threatening aspect roar; The Lord uplifts his awful hand, And chains you to the sh.o.r.e.

Ye winds of night, your force combine; Without his high behest, Ye shall not, in the mountain pine, Disturb the sparrow's nest.

His voice sublime is heard afar; In distant peals it dies; He yokes the whirlwind to his car And sweeps the howling skies.

Ye sons of earth, in reverence bend; Ye nations, wait his nod; And bid the choral song ascend To celebrate our G.o.d.

--H. Kirke White.

THOU SWEET, BELOVED WILL OF G.o.d