An Interlude.
_That_ part is finished! I lay down my pen, And wonder if the thoughts will flow as fast Through the more difficult defile. For the last Was easy, and the channel deeper then. My Master, I will trust Thee for the rest; Give me just what Thou wilt, and that will be my best!
How can _I_ tell the varied, hidden need Of Thy dear children, all unknown to me, Who at some future time may come and read What I have written! All are known to Thee. As Thou hast helped me, help me to the end; Give me Thy own sweet messages of love to send.
So now, I pray Thee, keep my hand in Thine; And guide it as Thou wilt. I do not ask To understand the 'wherefore' of each line; Mine is the sweeter, easier, happier task, Just to look up to Thee for every word, Rest in Thy love, and trust, and know that I am heard.
The Thoughts of God.
They say there is a hollow, safe and still, A point of coolness and repose Within the centre of a flame, where life might dwell Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous shell, Which the bright walls of fire enclose In breachless splendour, barrier that no foes Could pass at will.
There is a point of rest At the great centre of the cyclone's force, A silence at its secret source;-- A little child might slumber undistressed, Without the ruffle of one fairy curl, In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl.
So, in the centre of these thoughts of God, Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire,-- As we fall o'erawed Upon our faces, and are lifted higher By His great gentleness, and carried nigher Than unredeemed angels, till we stand Even in the hollow of His hand, Nay, more! we lean upon His breast-- _There_, there we find a point of perfect rest And glorious safety. There we see His thoughts to usward, thoughts of peace That stoop in tenderest love; that still increase With increase of our need; that never change, That never fail, or falter, or forget O pity infinite! O royal mercy free! O gentle climax of the depth and height Of God's most precious thoughts, most wonderful, most strange! 'For I am poor and needy, yet The Lord Himself, Jehovah, _thinketh upon me_!'
'Free to Serve.'
She chose His service. For the Lord of Love Had chosen her, and paid the awful price For her redemption; and had sought her out, And set her free, and clothed her gloriously, And put His royal ring upon her hand, And crowns of loving-kindness on her head. She chose it. Yet it seemed she could not yield The fuller measure other lives could bring; For He had given her a precious gift, A treasure and a charge to prize and keep, A tiny hand, a darling hand, that traced On her heart's tablet words of golden love. And there was not much room for other lines, For time and thought were spent (and rightly spent, For He had given the charge), and hours and days Were concentrated on the one dear task. But He had need of her. Not one new gem But many for His crown;--not one fair sheaf, But many, she should bring. And she should have A richer, happier harvest-home at last. Because more fruit, more glory and more praise Her life should yield to Him. And so He came, The Master came Himself, and gently took The little hand in His, and gave it room Among the angel-harpers. Jesus came And laid His own hand on the quivering heart, And made it very still, that He might write Invisible words of power--'Free to serve!' Then through the darkness and the chill He sent A heat-ray of His love, developing The mystic writing, till it glowed and shone And lit up all her life with radiance new,-- The happy service of a yielded heart. With comfort that He never ceased to give (Because her need could never cease) she filled The empty chalices of other lives, And time and thought were thenceforth spent for Him Who loved her with His everlasting love.