Chapter 67
Oh, come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits; Pierce, genial showers, down to my parched roots.
My well is bitter, cast therein the tree, That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be.
Say, what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed?
The mighty utterance of a mighty need.
The man is praying who doth press with might Out of his darkness into G.o.d's own light.
White heat the iron in the furnace won, Withdrawn from thence 'twas cold and hard anon.
Flowers, from their stalk divided, presently Droop, fall, and wither in the gazer's eye.
The greenest leaf, divided from its stem, To speedy withering doth itself condemn.
The largest river, from its fountain-head Cut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed.
All things that live from G.o.d their sustenance wait, And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.
All skirts extended of thy mantle hold When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold.
--Richard Chenevix Trench.
MEANING OF PRAYER
One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread-- To have a secret spot That separates my soul from thee, And yet to know it not.
Prayer was not meant for luxury, Or selfish pastime sweet; It is the prostrate creature's place At his Creator's feet.
But if this waiting long hath come A present from on high, Teach me to find the hidden wealth That in its depths may lie.
So in the darkness I can learn To tremble and adore; To sound my own vile nothingness, And thus to love thee more.
--Frederick William Faber.
TALKING WITH G.o.d
To stretch my hand and touch Him Though he be far away; To raise my eyes and see him Through darkness as through day; To lift my voice and call him-- This is to pray!
To feel a hand extended By One who standeth near;
--Samuel W. Duffield.
MY PRAYER
Being perplexed, I say, "Lord, make it right!
Night is as day to thee, Darkness is light.
I am afraid to touch Things that involve so much; My trembling hand may shake-- My skillful hand may break; Thine can make no mistake."
Being in doubt, I say, "Lord, make it plain!
Which is the true, safe way?
Which would be vain?
I am not wise to know, Nor sure of foot to go; My blind eyes cannot see What is so clear to thee.
Lord, make it clear to me."
THE SOURCE OF POWER
There is an eye that never sleeps Beneath the wing of night; There is an ear that never shuts When sink the beams of light.
There is an arm that never tires When human strength gives way; There is a love that never fails When earthly loves decay.
That eye is fixed on seraph throngs; That arm upholds the sky; That ear is filled with angel songs, That love is throned on high.
But there's a power which man can wield When mortal aid is vain, That eye, that arm, that love to reach, That listening ear to gain.
That power is prayer, which soars on high, Through Jesus, to the throne, And moves the hand which moves the world, To bring salvation down.
--James Cowden Wallace.
DIFFERENT PRAYERS
Three doors there are in the temple Where men go up to pray, And they that wait at the outer gate May enter by either way.
There are some that pray by asking; They lie on the Master's breast, And, shunning the strife of the lower life, They utter their cry for rest.
There are some that pray by seeking; They doubt where their reason fails; But their mind's despair is the ancient prayer To touch the print of the nails.
There are some that pray by knocking; They put their strength to the wheel For they have not time for thoughts sublime; They can only act what they feel.
Father, give each his answer, Each in his kindred way; Adapt thy light to his form of night And grant him his needed day.
--William Watson.
TRUE PRAYER
I.
It is not prayer, This clamor of our eager wants That fills the air With wearying, selfish plaints.
It is not faith To boldly count all gifts as ours-- The pride that saith, "For me his wealth he ever showers."
It is not praise To call to mind our happier lot, And boast bright days, G.o.d-favored, with all else forgot.