Chapter 81
THE ONLY SOLACE
O Thou who driest the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to thee!
The friends who in our suns.h.i.+ne live When winter comes are flown; And he who has but tears to give Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.
O who could bear life's stormy doom Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above!
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day.
--Thomas Moore.
CONSOLATION
If none were sick and none were sad What service could we render?
I think if we were always glad We scarcely could be tender.
Did our beloved never need Our patient ministration Earth would grow cold, and miss indeed Its sweetest consolation.
If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart-- Life would be disenchanted.
Banish far from me all I love, The smiles of friends, the old fireside, And drive me to that home of homes, The heart of Jesus crucified.
Take all the light away from earth, Take all that men can love from me; Let all I lean upon give way, That I may lean on naught but Thee.
--Frederick William Faber.
PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING
G.o.d never would send you the darkness If he felt you could bear the light; But you would not cling to his guiding hand If the way were always bright; And you would not care to walk by faith Could you always walk by sight.
'Tis true he has many an anguish For your sorrowful heart to bear, And many a cruel thorn-crown For your tired head to wear: He knows how few would reach heaven at all If pain did not guide them there.
So he sends you the blinding darkness, And the furnace
'Tis the only way, believe me, To keep you close to his feet, For 'tis always so easy to wander When our lives are glad and sweet.
Then nestle your hand in your Father's And sing, if you can, as you go; Your song may cheer some one behind you Whose courage is sinking low.
And--well--if your lips do quiver-- G.o.d will love you better so.
A LITTLE PARABLE
I made the cross myself whose weight Was later laid on me.
This thought is torture as I toil Up life's steep Calvary.
To think mine own hands drove the nails!
I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong.
If I had guessed--if I had dreamed-- Its weight was meant for me, I should have made a lighter cross To bear up Calvary.
--Anne Reeve Aldrich.
The unpolished pearl can never s.h.i.+ne-- 'Tis sorrow makes the soul divine.
--From the j.a.panese, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
THE SOWER
I
A Sower went forth to sow; His eyes were dark with woe; He crushed the flowers beneath his feet, Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, That prayed for pity everywhere.
He came to a field that was harried By iron, and to heaven laid bare; He shook the seed that he carried O'er that brown and bladeless place.
He shook it, as G.o.d shakes hail Over a doomed land.
When lightnings interlace The sky and the earth, and his wand Of love is a thunder-flail.
Thus did that Sower sow; His seed was human blood, And tears of women and men.
And I, who near him stood, Said: When the crop comes, then There will be sobbing and sighing, Weeping and wailing and crying, Flame, and ashes, and woe.
II
It was an autumn day When next I went that way.
And what, think you, did I say, What was it that I heard, What music was in the air?
The song of a sweet-voiced bird?
Nay--but the songs of many Thrilled through with praise and prayer.
Of all those voices not any Were sad of memory; But a sea of sunlight flowed, A golden harvest glowed, And I said, Thou only art wise, G.o.d of the earth and skies!
And I praise thee, again and again, For the Sower whose name is Pain.
--Richard Watson Gilder.
Not disabled in the combat, No, nor absent from your post; You are doing gallant service Where the Master needs you most.
It was n.o.ble to give battle While the world stood cheering on; It is n.o.bler to lie patient, Leaving half one's work undone.
And the King counts up his heroes Where the desperate charge was led, But he writes, "My Best Beloved,"
Over many a sick man's bed.
I DO NOT ASK, O LORD
I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load.
I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet.