Poems

What though temptations fierce allure thee, Poor child— storm-tossed! Though all the waves of sin surge o'er thee Thou'lt not be lost. If, when dumb anguish drives thee onward, (And hope seems dead,) Thou still with thy firm gaze fixed God-ward The wine-press tread, Till self lies crushed at last beneath thee, Its passions stilled: Then quick from thy Gethsemane, And newly thrilled, The peace that's born of conquered sorrow Thou sure shalt see, And ere to-day becomes to-morrow, God's signal free Shall pass thee on to heights eternal, Where waits the joy That thou hast earned , of things supernal, Free from alloy.

Saw ye my Saviour? Heard ye the glad sound? Felt ye the power of her Word? 'Twas the Truth that made man free, And was found by you and me In the life and the love of our Lord. Mourner, she calls thee: "Come to my bosom; Love wipes the tears all away, And will lift the shades of gloom, And for thee make blessed room When the darkness hath yielded to-day.

"'T is finished!" So may cry Old Year, With many a sigh, with many a tear. "I 'm waking!" Thus loud sings the New, When thought is fresh and skies are blue.

What if the little rain should say: "So small a drop as I, Can ne'er refresh the thirsty fields, I'll tarry in the sky"? What if a shining beam at noon Should in its fountain stay, Because its feeble light, alone, Can not create a day? Doth not each raindrop help to form The cool refreshing shower, And every ray of light to warm And beautify the flower? As I was looking over an old book of poems today, I came across the foregoing lines. I hope they may impress others as forcibly as they do me, for I have felt quite unhappy, thinking how little I am doing to influence those around me.

We are standing on the threshold, we are in the open door, We are treading on a border land we have never trod before: Another year is opening, and another year is gone, We have passed the darkness of the night, we are in the early morn: We have left the fields behind us o'er which we scattered seed; We pass into the future which none of us can read. The corn among the weeds, the stones, the surface-mould, May yield a partial harvest, we hope for sixty fold.

Thy Kingdom here? Lord, can it be? Searching and seeking everywhere For many a year, "Thy Kingdom come" has been my prayer. Was that dear Kingdom all the while so near? Blinded and dull With selfish sin, Have I been sitting at the gates Called Beautiful, Where Thy fair angel stands and waits, With hand upon the lock, to let me in? Was I the wall Which barred the way, Darkening the glory of Thy grace, Hiding the ray Which, shining out as from Thy very face, Had shown to other men the perfect day? Let me not sit Another hour, Idly awaiting what is mine to win, Blinded in wit.

Betwixt two seas we stand, One is on either hand,— Matter and Soul. One is the sea of naught; The other's Life is caught From Mind, the whole.

The last month of the year, We have come to its cheer, Its season divine, When to each human thought Comes the knowledge, God-fraught, Salvation is mine.

We make this life a mournful, empty dream, And stones for bread we give; And know not that the Soul's realities In its Ideals live. These are the stars that shine within its night, The angel one it sees, And evermore, unconsciously, it learns Its possible from these.

Oh Mother Love! Thou broodest still. In tenderness divine, On each dear child who does Thy will, And finds his strength in Thine.