Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 150

JOHN WESLEY

In those clear, piercing, piteous eyes behold The very soul that over England flamed!

Deep, pure, intense; consuming shame and ill; Convicting men of sin; making faith live; And,--this the mightiest miracle of all,-- Creating G.o.d again in human hearts.

What courage of the flesh and of the spirit!

How grim of wit, when wit alone might serve!

What wisdom his to know the boundless might Of banded effort in a world like ours!

How meek, how self-forgetful, courteous, calm!

A silent figure when men idly raged In murderous anger; calm, too, in the storm,-- Storm of the spirit, strangely imminent, When spiritual lightnings struck men down And brought, by violence, the sense of sin, And violently oped the gates of peace.

O hear that voice, which rang from dawn to night, In church and abbey whose most ancient walls Not for a thousand years such accents knew!

On windy hilltops; by the roaring sea; 'Mid tombs, in market-places, prisons, fields; 'Mid clamor, vile attack,--or deep-awed hush, Wherein celestial visitants drew near And secret ministered to troubled souls!

Hear ye, O hear! that ceaseless-pleading voice, Which storm, nor suffering, nor age could still-- Chief prophet voice through nigh a century's span!

Now silvery as Zion's dove that mourns, Now quelling as the Archangel's judgment trump, And ever with a sound like that of old Which, in the desert, shook the wandering tribes, Or, round about storied Jerusalem, Or by Gennesaret, or Jordan, spake The words of life.

Let not that image fade Ever, O G.o.d! from out the minds of men, Of him thy messenger and stainless priest, In a brute, sodden, and unfaithful time, Early and late, o'er land and sea, on-driven; In youth, in eager manhood, age extreme,-- Driven on forever, back and forth the world, By that divine, omnipotent desire-- The hunger and the pa.s.sion for men's souls!

--Richard Watson Gilder.

"WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS"

It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.

I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall.

--Arthur Hugh Clough.

HER GLADNESS

My darling went Unto the seaside long ago. Content I stayed at home, for O, I was so glad Of all the little outings that she had!

I knew she needed rest. I loved to stay At home a while that she might go away.

"How beautiful the sea! How she enjoys The music of the waves! No care annoys Her pleasures," thought I; "O, it is so good That she can rest a while. I wish she could Stay till the autumn leaves are turning red."

"Stay longer, sister," all my letters said.

"If you are growing stronger every day, I am so very glad to have you stay."

My darling went To heaven long ago. Am I content To stay at home? Why can I not be glad Of all the glories that she there has had?

She needed change. Why am I loath to stay And do her work and let her go away?

The land is lovely where her feet have been; Why do I not rejoice that she has seen Its beauties first? That she will show to me The City Beautiful? Is it so hard to be Happy that she is happy? Hard to know She learns so much each day that helps her so?

Why can I not each night and morning say, "I am so glad that she is glad to-day?"

"OUT OF REACH"

You think them "out of reach," your dead?

Nay, by my own dead, I deny Your "out of reach."--Be comforted; 'Tis not so far to die.

O by their dear remembered smiles, And outheld hands and welcoming speech, They wait for us, thousands of miles This side of "out of reach."

--James Whitcomb Riley.

SORROWFUL, YET REJOICING

I lift my head and walk my ways Before the world without a tear, And bravely unto those I meet I smile a message of good cheer; I give my lips to laugh and song, And somehow get me through each day; But, oh, the tremble in my heart Since she has gone away!

Her feet had known the stinging thorns, Her eyes the blistering tears; Bent were her shoulders with the weight And sorrow of the years; The lines were deep upon her brow, Her hair was thin and gray; And, oh, the tremble in my heart Since she has gone away!

I am not sorry; I am glad; I would not have her here again; G.o.d gave her strength life's bitter cup Unto the bitterest dreg to drain; I will not have less strength than she, I proudly tread my stony way; But, oh, the tremble in my heart Since she has gone away!

IN THE HOSPITAL

I lay me down to sleep With little thought or care Whether my waking find Me here or there.

A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how.

I am not eager, bold, Nor strong--all that is past; I'm ready not to do At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part; I give a patient G.o.d My patient heart,

And grasp his banner still, Though all its blue be dim; These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him.

--M. W. Howland.

FATHER OF MERCIES

Father of mercies, thy children have wandered Far from thy bosom, their home; Most of their portion of goods they have squandered; Farther and farther they roam.

We are thy children, and we have departed To the lone country afar, We would arise, we come back broken-hearted; Take us back just as we are.

Not for the ring or the robe we entreat thee, Nor for high place at the feast; Only to see thee, to touch thee, to greet thee, Ranked with the last and the least.

But for thy mercy we dare not accost thee, But for thy Son who has come Seeking his brothers who left thee and lost thee, Seeking to gather them home.

Father of mercies, thy holiness awes us; Yet thou dost wait to receive!

Jesus, the light of thy countenance charms us, Father of him, we believe.

Back in the home of thy heart, may we labor Others to bring from the wild, Counting each creature that needs us our neighbor, Claiming each soul as thy child.

--Robert F. Horton.

ANGELS