Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 125

O nearer to me, in the dark, Of life's low house, one moment stand; And give me keener eyes to mark The moving of thy hand.

--Edward Bulwer Lytton.

There's not a craving in the mind Thou dost not meet and still; There's not a wish the heart can have Which thou dost not fulfill.

--Frederick William Faber.

FINDING ALL IN JESUS

O Love that wilt not let me go, I rest my weary soul on thee; I give thee back the life I owe, That in thine ocean depth its flow May richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to thee; My heart restores its borrowed ray, That in thy suns.h.i.+ne's blaze its day May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, And feel the promise is not vain, That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from thee; I lay in dust life's glory dead, And from the ground there blossoms red Life that shall endless be.

--George Matheson.

EAST LONDON

'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said: "Ill and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?"

"Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, _the living bread_."

O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light Above the howling senses' ebb and flow To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam-- Not with lost toil thou laborest thro' the night!

Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.

--Matthew Arnold.

PRECIOUSNESS OF CHRIST

Jesus, the very thought of thee With sweetness fills the breast; But sweeter far thy face to see, And in thy presence rest.

No voice can sing, no heart can frame, Nor can the memory find, A sweeter sound than thy blest name, O Saviour of mankind!

O hope of every contrite heart!

O joy of all the meek!

To those who ask how kind thou art, How good to those who seek!

But what to those who find? Ah, this Nor tongue nor pen can show; The love of Jesus, what it is, None but his loved ones know.

Jesus, our only joy be thou, As thou our prize wilt be; In thee be all our glory now, And through eternity.

--Bernard of Clairvaux, tr. by Edward Caswall.

A LITTLE TALK WITH JESUS

A little talk with Jesus, How it smooths the rugged road!

How it seems to help me onward, When I faint beneath my load; When my heart is crushed with sorrow, And my eyes with tears are dim, There is naught can yield me comfort Like a little talk with him.

Ah, this is what I'm wanting-- His lovely face to see; And, I'm not afraid to say it, I know he's wanting me.

He gave his life my ransom, To make me all his own, And he'll ne'er forget his promise To me his purchased one.

I cannot live without him, Nor would I if I could; He is my daily portion, My medicine and food.

He's altogether lovely, None can with him compare; Chiefest among ten thousand, And fairest of the fair.

So I'll wait a little longer, Till his appointed time, And along the upward pathway My pilgrim feet shall climb.

There in my Father's dwelling, Where many mansions be, I shall sweetly talk with Jesus, And he will talk with me.

NOTHING TO WISH OR TO FEAR

His name yields the richest perfume, And sweeter than music his voice; His presence disperses my gloom, And makes all within me rejoice; I should, were he always thus nigh, Have nothing to wish or to fear; No mortal so happy as I, My summer would last all the year.

Content with beholding his face, My all to his pleasure resigned, No changes of season or place Would make any change in my mind; While blest with a sense of his love A palace a toy would appear; And prisons would palaces prove If Jesus would dwell with me there.

--John Newton.

THE HEART OF G.o.d

There is no love like the love of Jesus, Never to fade or fall Till into the fold of the peace of G.o.d He has gathered us all.

There is no heart like the heart of Jesus, Filled with a tender lore; Not a throb or throe our hearts can know But he suffered before.

There is no voice like the voice of Jesus; Ah! how sweet its chime, Like the musical ring of some rus.h.i.+ng spring In the summer-time!

O might we listen that voice of Jesus!

O might we never roam Till our souls should rest, in peace, on his breast, In the heavenly home!

--W. E. Littlewood.

THE TOUCH

"He touched her hand, and the fever left her."

He touched her hand as he only can, With the wondrous skill of the Great Physician, With the tender touch of the Son of man, And the fever-pain in the throbbing temples Died out with the flush on brow and cheek, And the lips that had been so parched and burning Trembled with thanks that she could not speak, And the eyes where the fever light had faded Looked up, by her grateful tears made dim, And she rose and ministered in her household; She rose and ministered unto him.

"He touched her hand, and the fever left her."

O blessed touch of the Man divine!

So beautiful to arise and serve him When the fever is gone from your life and mine.