Gleams of Sunshine Part 14

MY PANSY PETS

My pansy pets are sleeping well Beneath their quilt of snow; How they can breathe I cannot tell, Nor how their rootlets grow; But soon the snow will melt away And April showers descend; Then shall appear in colors gay Each little pansy friend.

Of pride it may not show a trace; Of lowly mind, alway; But will not blush to show its face All through the lifelong day: Its fragrance other flowers surpa.s.s, In form more stately, too.

But when you see my pets in ma.s.s, Thank G.o.d they ever grew.

For though the human face may frown, Or show a heart of guile, My pansy pets as you look down Will look at you and smile; Nor will they murmur if you should Pluck off their brightest bloom; Their mission is to do us good, And smile away our gloom.

LOVE BETTER THAN KNOWLEDGE

O Thou Eternal One, look down Upon an erring child of earth; Thy handiwork with knowledge crown, Or life will seem of little worth; By Thine own light illume my way, And turn this darkness into day.

I hear a whisper in my heart-- "Than knowledge, better far is love; Thy knowledge here is but in part, The perfect waits for Thee above: Walk now by faith, and leave to me The things now wrap'd in mystery."

Weighed down with mysteries profound I lean upon Thy loving breast; The great unknown still girts me round, But Thou art mine, and here I rest; Unsolved the mysteries remain; But they no longer give me pain.

My finite mind may never grasp The thought of Thy immensity; But I Thy hand more firmly clasp-- To feel Thee near suffices me; For Thou art knowledge, power, and love, The same in earth and heaven above.

A SUFFERING G.o.d

Man is like G.o.d in miniature, When he is at his best; His motives and impulses pure, His heart and will at rest; No conflict in himself is felt, His light no earthly beam, While love encircles like a belt, And conscience is supreme.

As thus endowed a creature may The keenest sufferings feel; Not such as rack the frame of clay, Which art of man may heal; But pain untold at others' woes, And deadly blight of sin, Which right and virtue overthrows, And blackens all within.

And may not G.o.d have suffered much Ere reached the gory cross?

Did not our woe the G.o.d-heart touch?

Did He not feel our loss?

The "Man of Sorrows" we adore, And own His sufferings real; But suffered He as G.o.d before; For G.o.d can sorrow feel.

THE COPY

Looking o'er this written page, Many blurs and blots are seen; Crooked strokes, at every stage-- Oh, that it again were clean, As at first I found it, when I defiled it with my pen!

Gladly would I all erase; But along the lines of blue You could still the failure trace In the paper's darkened hue; Though the words could not be seen, You could trace where they had been.

I will try to do my best, Though my ideal be not gained; On the Master's scrip shall rest Eager eyes, till is attained Some resemblance to His hand; If no more I can command.

Like my life, this written sheet, So unlike the pattern given; Crooked strokes, I oft repeat; Oh, that from it could be riven All the blurs and blots of sin; All the self that's found within.

_I_ can not the past erase.

_Christ_ shall blot the crooked out, Leaving not the slightest trace Of my sin, the lines about; And will give me grace to write Pages pleasing in His sight.

I will try to do my best, As He gives me strength and light, Leaving with Him all the rest; He will keep life's pages white; And the copy shall be shown Perfected, before His throne.

PERFECT WORK

An artist skilled beyond the sons of men With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall, Rare works of art, each one p.r.o.nounced a gem, The product of his hand, both great and small; Each filled its place in the designer's plan; Conceived in full before the work began.

Pleased was the artist with results as shown; But his ideal was not as yet attained; It needed this, as palace needs a throne, But _throne_ a _king_--then is perfection gained, When his great masterpiece hangs in its place, And the great artist looks in his own face.

THE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER, 1889

Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale, And see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail; The swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake, The waters rise to kiss the skies and walls of granite shake.

Oh, hear that awful booming; the dam has given way!

An avalanche of water G.o.d's hand alone can stay!

Oh, leap, ye hills, before it and keep this torrent back, Or devastated towns and homes will mark its onward track!

Look down, ye Alleghenies, upon this vale of woe; Ten thousand corpses at your base their soulless faces show; Some hid beneath the debris, some covered o'er with slime, Their spirits fled to meet their G.o.d, beyond the sh.o.r.es of time.

The aged sire and la.s.sie; the careworn mother, too, With her strong son, whom she had hoped would guard life's journey thro', Are lying there together, the old and young alike; Their plans and purposes cut off, no power to love or strike.

Bow down, ye Alleghenies, and weep o'er thousands slain, Who yesterday were all intent this present world to gain.

Their active brain is sleeping, their busy hands are still, Bright hopes are blasted in an hour, ambitions cease to thrill; Their mansions, with their bodies, the flood has borne away-- The rich and poor together rest till resurrection day.

Now leap for joy, ye mountains, for all is not in vain!

For as it was in Noah's flood, it ever will remain!

G.o.d cares for those who love Him; He holds them in His hand, And wind and wave obey His will, and rest at His command; Some sank beneath the freshet, and now with others lie, But G.o.d prepared another ark to bear their souls on high.

See, floating with the wreckage, borne onward by the tide, A loving mother with her babe close sheltered at her side; One hand has grasped a rafter, the other guards her child; Oh, how she pleads with G.o.d and man in accents loud and wild!

Men hear but give no answer, no human hand can save; Her voice, alas, is hushed in death by the relentless wave;

But G.o.d has heard her pleading, and now His angel bears Their deathless souls to dwell with Him, where free from toils and cares, Her voice rings out in gladness the notes of that blest psalm The prophet heard the elders sing, of "Moses and the Lamb."

And see this lovely maiden, a mother's hope and pride, The sunbeam of a Christian home, and the affianced bride Of one who loved her dearly, and loved her not in vain, For he had won a loyal heart, and hand without a stain; But he lies 'neath the billows, and she will join him soon.

Hark! hark! she sings in accents sweet, to old familiar tune!

"_Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly_," etc.

Her prayer, also, is answered, for see, the roof is bare!