Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 114

"THE SPLENDOR OF G.o.d'S WILL"

O words of golden music Caught from the harps on high, Which find a glorious anthem Where we have found a sigh, And peal their grandest praises Just where ours faint and die.

O words of holy radiance s.h.i.+ning on every tear Till it becomes a rainbow, Reflecting, bright and clear, Our Father's love and glory So wonderful, so dear!

O words of sparkling power, Of insight full and deep!

Shall they not enter other hearts In a grand and gladsome sweep, And lift the lives to songs of joy That only droop and weep?

And O, it is a splendor, A glow of majesty, A mystery of beauty, If we will only see; A very cloud of glory Enfolding you and me.

A splendor that is lighted At one transcendent flame, The wondrous love, the perfect love, Our Father's sweetest name; For his very name and essence And his will are all the same.

--Frances Ridley Havergal.

NOT BY CHANCE

No chance has brought this ill to me; 'Tis G.o.d's sweet will, so let it be; He seeth what I cannot see.

There is a need-be for each pain, And he will make it one day plain That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like as a piece of tapestry, Viewed from the back, appears to be Naught but threads tangled hopelessly,

But in the front a picture fair Rewards the worker for his care, Proving his skill and patience rare.

Thou art the workman, I the frame; Lord, for the glory of thy name, Perfect thine image on the same!

SUBMISSION TO G.o.d

Whate'er G.o.d wills let that be done; His will is ever wisest; His grace will all thy hope outrun Who to that faith arisest.

The gracious Lord Will help afford; He chastens with forbearing; Who G.o.d believes, And to him cleaves, Shall not be left despairing.

My G.o.d is my sure confidence, My light, and my existence; His counsel is beyond my sense, But stirs no weak resistance; His word declares The very hairs Upon my head are numbered; His mercy large Holds me in charge With care that never slumbered.

There comes a day when at his will The pulse of nature ceases.

I think upon it, and am still, Let come whate'er he pleases.

To him I trust My soul, my dust, When flesh and spirit sever; The Christ we sing Has plucked the sting Away from death forever.

--Albert of Brandenburg, 1586.

THY WILL BE DONE

We see not, know not; all our way Is night; with thee alone is day.

From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift: Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint.

But who are we to make complaint Or dare to plead, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease?

Thy will be done!

We take, with solemn thankfulness, Our burden up, nor ask it less, And count it joy that even we May suffer, serve, or wait for thee, Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace thy picture's wise design, And thank thee that our age supplies Its dark relief of sacrifice.

Thy will be done!

And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press; If from thy ordeal's heated bars Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by thee, our present pain Be liberty's eternal gain, Thy will be done.

Strike, thou the Master, we thy keys, The anthem of the destinies!

The minor of thy loftier strain, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, Thy will be done!

--John Greenleaf Whittier.

There is no sense, as I can see, In mortals such as you and me A-faulting nature's wise intents And locking horns with Providence.

It is no use to grumble and complain; It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice; When G.o.d sorts out the weather and sends rain-- Why, rain's my choice.

--James Whitcomb Riley.

THY WILL

Not in dumb resignation We lift our hands on high; Not like the nerveless fatalist, Content to do and die.

Our faith springs like the eagle Who soars to meet the sun, And cries, exulting, unto thee, "O Lord, thy will be done!"

Thy will! It bids the weak be strong; It bids the strong be just; No lip to fawn, no hand to beg, No brow to seek the dust.

Wherever man oppresses man, Beneath the liberal sun, O Lord, be there! Thine arm make bare!

Thy righteous will be done!

--John Hay.

AS G.o.d WILL

All goeth but G.o.d's will!

The fairest garden flower Fades after its brief hour Of brightness. Still, This is but G.o.d's good will.

All goeth but G.o.d's will!

The brightest, dearest day Doth swiftly pa.s.s away, And darkest night Succeeds the vision bright.

But still strong-hearted be, Yea, though the night be drear; How sad and long soe'er Its gloom may be, This darkness, too, shall flee.

Weep not yon grave beside!