Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 84

Then answered the Lord to the cry of his world: "Shall I take away pain And with it the power of the soul to endure, Made strong by the strain?

Shall I take away pity, that knits heart to heart, And sacrifice high?

Will ye lose all your heroes that lift from the fire White brows to the sky?

Shall I take away love, that redeems with a price And smiles at its loss?

Can ye spare from your lives, that would climb unto mine, The Christ on his cross?"

'Tis not alone in the suns.h.i.+ne Our lives grow pure and true; There is growth as well in the shadow, And pain has a work to do.

So it comes to me more and more As I enter upon each new day: The love of the Father eternal Is over us all the way.

"In pastures green"? Not always; sometimes he Who knoweth best in kindness leadeth me In weary ways where heavy shadows be.

But where He leads me I can safely go, And in the blest hereafter I shall know Why in his wisdom he hath led me so.

A SONG OF SOLACE

Thou sweet hand of G.o.d, that so woundest my heart, Thou makest me smile while thou mak'st me to smart; It seems as if G.o.d were at ball-play; and I, The harder he strikes me the higher I fly.

I own it, he bruises, he pierces me sore; But the hammer and chisel afflict me no more.

Shall I tell you the reason? It is that I see The Sculptor will carve out an angel for me.

I shrink from no suffering, how painful soe'er, When once I can feel that my G.o.d's hand is there; For soft on the anvil the iron shall glow When the Smith with his hammer deals blow upon blow.

G.o.d presses me hard, but he gives patience, too!

And I say to myself, "'Tis no more than my due,"

And no tone from the organ can swell on the breeze Till the organist's fingers press down on the keys.

So come, then, and welcome the blow and the pain!

Without them no mortal to heaven can attain; For what can the sheaves on the barn floor avail Till the thresher shall beat out the chaff with his flail?

'Tis only a moment G.o.d chastens with pain; Joy follows on sorrow like suns.h.i.+ne on rain.

Then bear thou what G.o.d on thy spirit shall lay; Be dumb; but, when tempted to murmur, then pray.

--From the German.

When thou hast thanked thy G.o.d for every blessing sent, What time will then remain for murmurs or lament?

We must live through the weary winter If we would value the spring; And the woods must be cold and silent Before the robins sing.

The flowers must lie buried in darkness Before they can bud and bloom; And the sweetest and warmest suns.h.i.+ne Comes after the storm and gloom.

--Agnes L. Pratt.

We look along the s.h.i.+ning ways, To see the angel faces; They come to us in darkest days And in the blackest places.

The strongest hearts have strongest need, To them the fiery trial; Who walks a saint in word and deed Is saint by self-denial.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, That the strongest suffer most, That the wisest wander farthest, And most hopelessly are lost?

That the mark of rank in nature Is capacity for pain, That the anguish of the singer Makes the sweetness of the strain?

O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine.

And trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.

--James Russell Lowell.

But all G.o.d's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after other lift their frowning masks, And we behold the seraph's face beneath All radiant with the glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of G.o.d.

--James Russell Lowell.

The man whom G.o.d delights to bless He never curses with success.

Thrice happy loss which makes me see My happiness is all in thee.

--Charles Wesley.

Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half.

Who never failed, he never strove or sought.

Who never wept is stranger to a laugh And he who never doubted never thought.

--J. B. Goode.

I thank thee, Lord, that all my joy Is touched with pain; That shadows fall on brightest hours; That thorns remain; So that earth's bliss may be my guide, And not my chain.

Would'st thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?

Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?

Balm would'st thou gather for corroding grief?

Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.

Art thou weary, tender heart?

Be glad of pain; In sorrow sweetest things will grow As flowers in rain.

G.o.d watches; and thou wilt have sun When clouds their perfect work have done.

--Lucy Larcom.

'Tis sorrow builds the s.h.i.+ning ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities Whereon our firm feet planting nearer G.o.d The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.

--James Russell Lowell.