Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 79

I hop'd that in some favor'd hour At once he'd answer my request, And by his love's constraining power Subdue my sins and give me rest.

Instead of this he made me feel The hidden evils of my heart, And let the angry powers of h.e.l.l a.s.sault my soul in ev'ry part.

Yes, more: with his own hand he seem'd Intent to aggravate my woe, Cross'd all the fair designs I schemed, Blasted my gourds and laid them low.

"Lord, why is this?" I trembling cried; "Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?"

"'Tis in this way," the Lord replied, "I answer prayer for grace and faith.

"These inward trials I employ From self and pride to set thee free, And break thy schemes of earthly joy That thou mayest set thine all in me!"

--John Newton.

"THOU MAINTAINEST MY LOT"

Source of my life's refres.h.i.+ng springs, Whose presence in my heart sustains me, Thy love appoints me pleasant things, Thy mercy orders all that pains me.

If loving hearts were never lonely, If all they wished might always be, Accepting what they look for only, They might be glad--but not in thee.

Well may thy own beloved, who see In all their lot their Father's pleasure, Bear loss of all they love save thee, Their living, everlasting treasure.

Well may thy happy children cease From restless wishes, p.r.o.ne to sin, And, in thine own exceeding peace, Yield to thy daily discipline.

We need as much the cross we bear As air we breathe, as light we see!

It draws us to thy side in prayer, It binds us to our strength in thee.

--Anna Let.i.tia Waring.

THE MASTER'S TOUCH

In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen; To make the music and the beauty needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.

Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand; Let not the music that is in us die.

Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let Hidden and lost thy form within us lie!

Spare not the stroke! Do with us as thou wilt!

Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our G.o.d and Lord!

--Horatius Bonar.

The childish smile is fair, but lovelier far The smiles which tell of griefs that now no longer are.

--John Sterling.

A BLESSING IN TEARS

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swoon'd nor uttered cry.

All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend, and n.o.blest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee; Like summer tempest came her tears: "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

--Alfred Tennyson.

EVERY DAY

O trifling task so often done, Yet ever to be done anew!

O cares which come with every sun, Morn after morn, the long years through!

We sink beneath their paltry sway-- The irksome calls of every day.

The restless sense of wasted power, The tiresome round of little things, Are hard to bear, as hour by hour Its tedious iteration brings; Who shall evade or who delay The small demands of every day?

The bowlder, in the torrent's course By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force And yields its substance grain by grain; So crumble strongest lives away Beneath the wear of every day.

Who finds the lion in his lair, Who tracks the tiger for his life May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife, Yet powerless he to scathe or slay The vexing gnats of every day.

The steady strain that never stops Is mightier than the fiercest shock; The constant fall of water drops Will groove the adamantine rock; We feel our n.o.blest powers decay In feeble wars with every day.

We rise to meet a heavy blow-- Our souls a sudden bravery fills-- But we endure not always so The drop by drop of little ills; We still deplore, and still obey, The hard behests of every day.

The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath The needle-points of frets and cares; The stoutest spirits they dismay-- The tiny stings of every day.

And even saints of holy fame, Whose souls by faith have overcome, Who won amid the cruel flame The molten crown of martyrdom, Bore not without complaint alway The petty pains of every day.

Ah, more than martyr's aureole, And more than hero's heart of fire, We need the humble strength of soul Which daily toils and ills require; Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may, An added grace for every day.

PEACEABLE FRUIT

(Heb. 12. 11.)

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this dark and suffering night?

Father, _what_ shall thine "afterward" be?

Hast thou a morning of joy for me, And a new and joyous light?

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For the moan that I cannot stay?

Shall it issue in some new song of praise, Sweeter than sorrowless heart could raise, When the night hath pa.s.sed away?

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this helplessness of pain?

A clearer view of my home above, Of my Father's strength and my Father's love-- Shall _this_ be my lasting gain?

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord?