Poems

Feed me with Love, O Father, The bread of Life divine; The living waters give me, From that white throne of Thine: Then shall I hunger never, And thirst no more shall know, And from my thought forever Shall healing rivers flow. Feed me and heal me, Father; Guard me where'er I go.

Marble and recording brass decay, And, like the 'graver's memory, pass away; The work of man inherit, as is just, Their author's frailty, and return to dust; But Truth divine forever stands secure, Its head as guarded, as its base is sure; Fixed in the rolling Hood of years, The pillar of the eternal plan appears; The raving storm and dashing wave defies, Built by the Architect who built the skies. Cowper.

Gently as the snowflakes falling From a dark and cloudy sky; Sweetly as showers of cherry blooms From grey branches bare and dry; Comes the Angel of His Presence Out of clouds that dim the sight, Bringing peace like breath of perfume, Clothing earth in robes of white. 'Tis the same sweet voice of "Peace" That the faithful shepherds heard: And the storm-tossed, frightened sailors Saw the waves obey the word That we hear while we are working, Ofttimes in a starry night; Sore afraid we call the Master, And his "Peace" puts fear to flight.

Does the journey seem long? Is thy heart pierced with wrong? Is thy good often crushed Under foot of the strong? Only wait! Love Divine will remove All that brings to thee grief. Art thou upright? Press on! Thou shalt know sweet relief.

Once more the church is seized with sudden fear, And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed: Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed And flung into the brook that travels near; Forthwith, that ancient voice which streams can hear, Thus spake (that voice which walks upon the wind Though seldom heard by busy human kind), "As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies, How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed. " Wordsworth.

In the stronghold of God's power, Where no foe can come; Safe within that mighty fortress, I would make my home. Round about the towering bulwarks Error's forces roar; But the walls of Truth surround me: Love doth guard the door.

An arm of aid to the weak; A friendly hand to the friendless; Kind words, so short to speak, But whose echo is endless: The world is wide, these things are small, They may be nothings,—but they are all. R.

Rolling away the clouds of sin, Letting the floodtides of glory in, Rolling away the thoughts of pain, Soothing to rest the fevered brain, Rolling away the shades of death, Giving the nations breath, Rolling away the night of woe, Furling our banner o'er friend and foe, O, list! to a world in tears we bring, The glorified beauty of Christ, our King. Sweet as the breath of a new-born day, Soft as the moonbeam's shimmering ray, Fair as the fragrance that dwells within The soul of him who hath conquered sin, Bright as the dewdrops that glint in the sun, And clear as the day when the night is done,— It covers the earth with a glad refrain, The surcease of sorrow and sin and pain,— For Truth's mighty billows have swept the soul, And Good over evil has gained control.

Dost thou doubt the sun is shining When the clouds o'ercast the sky? Dost thou doubt the rain's refreshing When the brooklet's bed is dry? Dost thou doubt the tide's returning When the waves forsake the strand? Does the child distrust its mother When it does not grasp her hand? Since the birds neglect their sowing, Do they lose their Father's care? Since the lilies toil and spin not, Does their verdure seem less fair? Constant as the sun in heaven, Sure as tidal ebb and flow, Is the grace that God hath given To His loved ones here below. Soon the clouds of sense will vanish, Soon the arid wastes will bloom, Soon the smiles of heaven will banish All the shades of mortal gloom, If we fix our heart's affections On the perfect Love, divine, And through lives of consecration Let the light of heaven shine.

Oft there comes a gentle whisper o'er me stealing, When my trials and my burdens seem too great, Like the sweet-voiced bells of evening softly pealing, It is saying to my spirit, Only wait. When I cannot understand my Father's leading, And it seems to be but hard and cruel fate, Still I hear that gentle whisper ever pleading, God is working; God is faithful; only wait.