Gleams of Sunshine Part 9

"WILT THOU HARa.s.s A DRIVEN LEAF?"

O hara.s.s not a driven leaf, Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue; A life so brief load not with grief, Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.

The fragile leaf, by tempest tost, Is scarcely worth a pa.s.sing thought; The brook is crossed, and then is lost; There let it lie, a thing of naught.

The stubble dry ne'er grows again; To golden grain it gave its sap.

It died, and then 'twas left by men To rot betimes, or some mishap.

Am I not like the stubble dry And fragile leaf by tempest strewed?

Must I not die, then tell me why A thing so frail is thus pursued?

A voice replies: "Thy life is frail, Much like the leaf and stubble dry; Thy strength must fail, and as the gale Bears them away, so must thou die;

"But live again, in bliss, or pain; For death to man does not end all; Life is not vain, if thou but gain A _home in heaven_, when I shall call!

"To fit thy soul for endless rest, I hara.s.s now the driven leaf, But though sore pressed and grief distressed, The life of sorrow will be brief.

"And when released from suffering clay, Thy blood-bought spirit shall arise To endless day. Then thou shalt say, _The ways of G.o.d are good and wise._"

A GEM

The gem is not this ode itself; Hardly can it aspire so high.

Earth has its gems; but all its wealth,

Increased by thousands, cannot buy Man's _soul_, the gem of priceless worth, Made in G.o.d's image at its birth; Ordained to live for evermore; Redeemed by blood from sin and h.e.l.l; Transformed by grace, G.o.d's love to tell; And at His feet its homage pour.

Lordly are its endowments, too;

Superb its destiny, if true; Only below, said one who knew, Unfallen angels round G.o.d's throne.

Lord, may this gem be Thine alone.

THE CLOUDS

A grand stairway do these clouds appear As they heavenward rise, tier upon tier, With clearly-marked s.p.a.ce of blue between, Compared with which human art looks mean.

Do the angels tread this grand staircase, When they come to earth to bless our race, And lend their aid to each struggling soul As he ascends toward the heavenly goal?

Was this the ladder by Jacob seen, That reached from heaven to the mattress green On which he lay all the lonely night Till G.o.d afforded the blessed sight,

And made him feel, tho' an exile here, His father's G.o.d would be ever near-- The servant's cry would to heaven arise, And blessings fall from the bending skies?

But no staircase do the angels need; They come to earth at a greater speed, Not step by step, nor on eagle's wing, Nor beams of light do their message bring.

Though heaven be far beyond mortal ken, a.s.sisted by all the arts of men, A moment's time and the s.p.a.ce is pa.s.sed, And heaven's best gifts at our feet are cast.

Not a cloud stairway, nor ladder long, Connects this earth with the land of song; The Saviour bends from the opening skies-- He smiles in love, and our souls arise.

As flakes of steel to the magnet fly, And mists ascend to the sun on high, So we are drawn by the cords of love From the earth below to thrones above.

O lift me up from my bed of clay, To dwell with Thee in the realms of day.

If 'tis Thy will I should tarry still, Prepare me, Lord, for Thy Holy Hill.

THE MOSSES

Exquisite mosses, so lovely and green, Covering the rocks with emerald sheen; Hiding the scars which convulsions have made; Blessing the mound where our angel was laid; Forming a carpet on which we may tread; Clothing with beauty the rotten and dead; Sheathing from storm-blasts the young forest tree-- Beautiful mosses, examples for me.

Trod under foot by all kinds of men; Gracing the mountain or hid in the fen; Never adorning the brow of the fair; Seldom deemed worthy some corner to share In the bouquets that are cast in the way Princely feet tread on reception's proud day; The glory of roses do not attain; Beautiful mosses, ye grow not in vain.

Answer the end by your Maker designed.

Humble your bloom, but your mission is kind.

Those will most prize you who knew you the best.

Cover me o'er when I lie down to rest; Cover, likewise, in the marble my name, Hiding forever that index of shame; But tell to the world, "as life he pa.s.sed through, He covered some scars and aimed to be true."

THE GRANDEST THEME

The grandest theme for tongue, or pen, Is not the heavens supernal; Nor mighty deeds of G.o.d-like men, Though they may be eternal;

Nor Alpine heights, nor lovely vale, With brooks and grazing cattle; Nor awful roar of rus.h.i.+ng gale, Beyond the noise of battle;

Nor clas.h.i.+ng arms, nor trembling earth; Nor heaving waves of ocean; Nor record of a nation's birth; Nor heaven's cloud-cars in motion.

The grandest theme, for tongue, or pen, Above all else in glory; Which suits alike, all sinful men, Is the sweet Gospel story,

Which tells me of my Saviour's love And infinite compa.s.sion, Which brought Him from His throne above To Calvary's cross and pa.s.sion.

And now the holy angels sing, With blood-washed souls in glory, A song which makes heaven's arches ring About this Gospel story.

SEPTEMBER