Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 120

Converse in mind with G.o.d; Thy spirit heavenward raise; Acknowledge every good bestowed, And offer grateful praise.

Conclude the day with G.o.d: Thy sins to him confess; Trust in the Lord's atoning blood, And plead his righteousness.

Lie down at night with G.o.d, Who gives his servants sleep; And when thou tread'st the vale of death He will thee guard and keep.

HE FILLS ALL

All are but parts of one stupendous whole; Whose body nature is, and G.o.d the soul; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; Great in the earth as in th' ethereal frame; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees; Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our souls, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns.

To him no high, no low, no great, no small, He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good; And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear--whatever is, is right.

--Alexander Pope.

THE PRESENCE

I sit within my room and joy to find That thou who always lov'st art with me here; That I am never left by thee behind, But by thyself thou keep'st me ever near.

The fire burns brighter when with thee I look, And seems a kindlier servant sent to me; With gladder heart I read thy holy book, Because thou art the eyes with which I see; This aged chair, that table, watch, and door Around in ready service ever wait; Nor can I ask of thee a menial more To fill the measure of my large estate; For thou thyself, with all a Father's care, Where'er I turn art ever with me there.

--Jones Very.

BLESSED THOUGHT OF G.o.d

One thought I have--my ample creed, So deep it is and broad, And equal to my every need-- It is the thought of G.o.d.

Each morn unfolds some fresh surprise, I feast at life's full board; And rising in my inner skies, s.h.i.+nes forth the thought of G.o.d.

At night my gladness is my prayer; I drop my daily load, And every care is pillowed there Upon the thought of G.o.d.

I ask not far before to see, But take in trust my road; Life, death, and immortality, Are in my thought of G.o.d.

To this their secret strength they owed The martyr's path who trod; The fountains of their patience flowed From out their thought of G.o.d.

Be still the light upon my way, My pilgrim staff and rod, My rest by night, my strength by day, O blessed thought of G.o.d.

--Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

EVENTIDE

At cool of day with G.o.d I walk My garden's grateful shade; I hear his voice among the trees, And I am not afraid.

I see his presence in the night-- And though my heart is awed I do not quail before the sight Or nearness of my G.o.d.

He speaks to me in every wind, He smiles from every star; He is not deaf to me, nor blind, Nor absent, nor afar.

His hand, that shuts the flowers to sleep, Each in its dewy fold, Is strong my feeble life to keep, And competent to hold.

I cannot walk in darkness long, My light is by my side; I cannot stumble or go wrong While following such a guide.

He is my stay and my defense; How shall I fail or fall?

My helper is Omnipotence!

My ruler ruleth all!

The powers below and powers above Are subject to his care; I cannot wander from his love Who loves me everywhere.

Thus dowered, and guarded thus, with him I walk this peaceful shade, I hear his voice among the trees, And I am not afraid.

--Caroline Atherton Mason.

From cellar unto attic all is clean: Nothing there is that need evade the eye; All the dark places, by the world unseen, Are as well ordered as what open lie.

Ah! souls are houses; and to keep them well, Nor, spring and autumn, mourn their wretched plight, To daily toil must vigilance compel, Right underneath G.o.d's scrutinizing light.

SAINTs.h.i.+P

To heaven approached a Sufi saint, From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at G.o.d's gate.

Said G.o.d, "Who seeks to enter here?"

"'Tis I, dear Friend," the saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear.

"If it be _thou_, without abide."

Sadly to earth the poor saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in G.o.d's.

He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked.

Asked G.o.d: "Who now is at the door?"

"It is thyself, beloved Lord,"

Answered the saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward.

--From the Persian, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

OPEN THOU OUR EYES

(Luke 24. 15)

And he drew near and talked with them, But they perceived him not, And mourned, unconscious of that light, The gloom, the darkness, and the night That wrapt his burial spot.

Wearied with doubt, perplexed and sad, They knew nor help nor guide; While he who bore the secret key To open every mystery, Unknown was by their side.

Thus often when we feel alone, Nor help nor comfort near, 'Tis only that our eyes are dim, Doubting and sad we see not him Who waiteth still to hear.