Chapter I: Asked the Lord That I Might Grow

I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith and love and every grace;
Might more of his salvation know,
And seek more earnestly his face.

'Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And he, I trust, has answer'd prayer;
But it has been in such a way
As almost drove me to despair.

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 hell
Assault 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 refreshing 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, prone 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 Letitia 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 God 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 noblest 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 noblest 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 passed 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?
How long must thy child endure?
Thou knowest! 'Tis well that I know it not!
Thine "afterward" cometh--I cannot tell what,
But I know that thy word is sure.

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord,
I wonder--and wait to see
(While to thy chastening hand I bow)
What "peaceable fruit" may be ripening now--
Ripening fast for me!

--Frances Ridley Havergal.

HOW WE LEARN

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth,
Such as men give and take from day to day,
Comes in the common walk of easy life,
Blown by the careless wind across our way.

Great truths are greatly won, not found by chance,
Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream;
But grasped in the great struggle of the soul
Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream.

But in the day of conflict, fear and grief,
When the strong hand of God, put forth in might,
Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart
And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light,

Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours
Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain,
Truth springs like harvest from the well-plowed field.
And the soul feels it has not wept in vain.

--Horatius Bonar.

Though trouble-tossed and torture-torn
The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.

--Gerald Massey.

HEAVIER THE CROSS

Heavier the cross the stronger faith:
The loaded palm strikes deeper root;
The vine-juice sweetly issueth
When men have pressed the clustered fruit;
And courage grows where dangers come
Like pearls beneath the salt sea foam.

Heavier the cross the heartier prayer;
The bruised herbs most fragrant are;
If sky and wind were always fair
The sailor would not watch the star;
And David's psalms had ne'er been sung
If grief his heart had never wrung.

Heavier the cross the more aspiring;
From vales we climb to mountain's crest;
The pilgrim, of the desert tiring,
Longs for the Canaan of his rest.
The dove has here no rest in sight,
And to the ark she wings her flight.

Heavier the cross the easier dying;
Death is a friendlier face to see;
To life's decay one bids defying,
From life's distress one then is free;
The cross sublimely lifts our faith
To him who triumphed over death.

Thou Crucified! the cross I carry--
The longer may it dearer be;
And, lest I faint while here I tarry,
Implant thou such a heart in me
That faith, hope, love, may flourish there
Till for the cross my crown I wear.

--Benjamin Schmolke.

LA ROCHELLE

A worthy man of Paris town
Came to the bishop there:
His face, o'erclouded with dismay,
Betrayed a fixed despair.

"Father," said he, "a sinner vile
Am I, against my will:
Each hour I humbly pray for faith,
But am a doubter still.

"Sure were I not despised of God,
He would not leave me so
To struggle thus in constant strife
Against the deadly foe."

The bishop to his sorrowing son
Thus spoke a kind relief:
"The King of France has castles twain;
To each he sends a chief.

"There's Montelhery, far inland,
That stands in place secure;
While La Rochelle, upon the coast,
Doth sieges oft endure.

"Now for these castles--both preserved--
First in his prince's love
Shall Montelhery's chief be placed,
Or La Rochelle's above?"

"Oh! doubtless, sire," the sinner said,
"That king will love the most
The man whose task was hard to keep
His castle on the coast!"

"Son," said the bishop, "thou art right;
Apply this reasoning well:
My heart is Montelhery fort,
And thine is La Rochelle!"

IF THOU COULD'ST KNOW

I think, if thou could'st know,
O soul, that will complain,
What lies concealed below
Our burden and our pain--
How just our anguish brings
Nearer those longed-for things
We seek for now in vain--
I think thou would'st rejoice and not complain.

I think, if thou could'st see,
With thy dim mortal sight,
How meanings, dark to thee,
Are shadows hiding light;
Truth's efforts crossed and vexed,
Life's purpose all perplexed--
If thou could'st see them right,
I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, and bright.

And yet thou can'st not know;
And yet thou can'st not see;
Wisdom and sight are slow
In poor humanity.
If thou could'st _trust_, poor soul,
In him who rules the whole,
Thou would'st find peace and rest:
Wisdom and sight are well, but trust is best.

MY CROSS

"O Lord, my God!" I oft have said,
"Had I some other cross instead
Of this I bear from day to day,
'Twere easier to go on my way.

"I do not murmur at its weight;
That Thou hast made proportionate
To my scant strength; but oh! full sore
It presses where it pressed before.

"Change for a space, however brief,
The wonted burden, that relief
May o'er my aching shoulders steal,
And the deep bruise have room to heal!"

While thus I sadly sighed to-day
I heard my gracious Father say,
"Can'st thou not trust my love, my child,
And to thy cross be reconciled?

"I fashioned it thy needs to meet;
Nor were thy discipline complete
Without that very pain and bruise
Which thy weak heart would fain refuse."

Ashamed, I answered, "As Thou wilt!
I own my faithlessness and guilt;
Welcome the weary pain shall be,
Since only that is best for me."

GOD KNOWETH BEST

He took them from me, one by one,
The things I set my heart upon;
They looked so harmless, fair, and blest;
Would they have hurt me? God knows best.
He loves me so, he would not wrest
Them from me if it were not best.

He took them from me, one by one,
The friends I set my heart upon.
O did they come, they and their love,
Between me and my Lord above?
Were they as idols in my breast?
It may be. God in heaven knows best.

I will not say I did not weep,
As doth a child that wants to keep
The pleasant things in hurtful play
His wiser parent takes away;
But in this comfort I will rest:
He who hath taken knoweth best.

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 sunshine 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

God 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 of seven-fold heat.
'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--
God 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 shine--
'Tis sorrow makes the soul divine.

--From the Japanese, 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 God 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,
God 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 noble to give battle
While the world stood cheering on;
It is nobler 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.