Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 28

--Henry van d.y.k.e.

MARTHA

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve!

Not all with tranquil heart, Even at Thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart!

Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at Thy feet May muse and pray.

Yes, Lord! Yet some must do Life's daily task-work; some Who fain would sing must toil Amid earth's dust and moil, While lips are dumb!

Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn And woman bake the bread; And some must watch and wake Early for others' sake, Who pray instead!

Yes, Lord! Yet even thou Hast need of earthly care; I bring the bread and wine To Thee a Guest divine-- Be this my prayer!

--Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

If we sit down at set of sun And count the things that we have done, And counting, find One self-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind, That fell like suns.h.i.+ne where it went, Then we may count the day well spent.

But if through all the livelong day We've eased no heart by yea or nay; If through it all We've nothing done that we can trace That brought the suns.h.i.+ne to a face, No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost, Then count that day as worse than lost.

This for the day of life I ask: Some all-absorbing, useful task; And when 'tis wholly, truly done, A tranquil rest at set of sun.

SERVICE

Ah! grand is the world's work, and n.o.ble, forsooth, The doing one's part, be it ever so small!

You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth, Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.

No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels; No serf in the field but is sowing G.o.d's seed-- More n.o.ble, I think, in the dust though he kneels, Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.

Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind, But think of the grist, what is done and to do, The world growing better, more like to G.o.d's mind, By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.

The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that plies Its own honest task in its own honest way, Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies-- What more could the Pleiades do than obey?

--James Buckham.

SUMMER AND WINTER

If no kindly thought or word We can give, some soul to bless, If our hands, from hour to hour, Do no deeds of gentleness; If to lone and weary ones We no comfort will impart-- Tho' 'tis summer in the sky, Yet 'tis winter in the heart!

If we strive to lift the gloom From a dark and burdened life; If we seek to lull the storm Of our fallen brother's strife; If we bid all hate and scorn From the spirit to depart-- Tho' 'tis winter in the sky, Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

THE ELEVENTH-HOUR LABORER

Idlers all day about the market-place They name us, and our dumb lips answer not, Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace, And our dark tasking whereof none may wot.

Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!-- Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear, But we who on the market-stones drop slow Our barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.

Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declares Our one hour's labor as the day's shall be, What coin divine can make our wage as theirs Who had the morning joy of work for Thee?

--L. Gray n.o.ble.

"THY LABOR IS NOT IN VAIN"

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said, And his brow was marked with care; "I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head, And bitter and sad were the tears he shed In that moment of dark despair.

"I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak, And my courage is well-nigh gone; For none give heed to the words I speak, And in vain for a promise of fruit I seek Where the seed of the Word is sown."

And again with a sorrowful heart he wept, For his spirit with grief was stirred, Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept, And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept, And a whisper of "peace" was heard.

And he thought in his dream that his soul took flight To a blessed and bright abode; He saw a throne of dazzling light, And harps were ringing, and robes were white-- Made white in a Saviour's blood.

And he saw such a countless throng around As he never had seen before, Their brows with jewels of light were crowned, And sorrow and sighing no place had found-- The troubles of time were o'er.

Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said, "Joy! Joy! for the trials are pa.s.sed!

I am one that thy gentle words have led In the narrow pathway of life to tread-- I welcome thee home at last!"

And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face-- He had seen that face on earth, Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted place He had told his charge of a Saviour's grace, And their need of a second birth.

Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said, "Go forth to thy work again; It is not in vain that the seed is shed-- If only ONE soul to the cross is led, Thy labor is not in vain."

And at last he woke, and his knee he bent In grateful, childlike prayer, And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent, And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bent O'er the clouds of his earthly care.

And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright.

His sorrow and grief had fled, And his soul was calm and his heart was light, For his hands were strong in his Saviour's might As forth to his work he sped.

Whatever dies, or is forgot-- Work done for G.o.d, it dieth not.

FOLLOWING THE MASTER

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be, Might grow in faith and hope and charity; And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me.

"Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds avail To cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage fail And sins prevent, and foes and fears a.s.sail."

And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard.

But should I rest upon that simple word?

Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord?

Behold, I thought that he his hand would lay On my sick soul, and words of healing say, And charm the plague-spot from my heart away.

Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the look He on me cast--a gaze I could not brook; With deep relentings all my spirit shook.