'I thought I knew it!' she said, 'I thought I had learnt it quite!' But the gentle Teacher shook her head, With a grave yet loving light In the eyes that fell on the upturned face, As she gave the book With the mark still set in the self-same place.
'I thought I knew it!' she said; And a heavy tear fell down, As she turned away with bending head, Yet not for reproof or frown, Not for the lesson to learn again, Or the play hour lost;-- It was something else that gave the pain.
She could not have put it in words, But her Teacher understood, As God understands the chirp of the birds In the depth of an autumn wood. And a quiet touch on the reddening cheek Was quite enough; No need to question, no need to speak.
Then the gentle voice was heard, 'Now I will try you again!' And the lesson was mastered,--every word! Was it not worth the pain? Was it not kinder the task to turn, Than to let it pass, As a lost, lost leaf that she did not learn?
Is it not often so, That we only learn in part, And the Master's testing-time may show That it was not quite 'by heart'? Then He gives, in His wise and patient grace, That lesson again With the mark still set in the self-same place.
Only, stay by His side Till the page is really known. It may be we failed because we tried To learn it all alone, And now that He would not let us lose One lesson of love (For He knows the loss),--can we refuse?
But oh! how could we dream That we knew it all so well! Reading so fluently, as we deem, What we could not even spell! And oh! how could we grieve once more That Patient One Who has turned so many a task before!
That waiting One, who now Is letting us try again; Watching us with the patient brow, That bore the wreath of pain; Thoroughly teaching what He would teach, Line upon line, Thoroughly doing His work in each.
Then let our hearts 'be still,' Though our task is turned to-day; Oh let Him teach us what He will, In His own gracious way. Till, sitting only at Jesus' feet, As we learn each line The hardest is found all clear and sweet!
Sunday Night.
Rest him, O Father! Thou didst send him forth With great and gracious messages of love; But Thy ambassador is weary now, Worn with the weight of his high embassy. Now care for him as Thou hast cared for us In sending him; and cause him to lie down In Thy fresh pastures, by Thy streams of peace. Let Thy left hand be now beneath his head, And Thine upholding right encircle him, And, underneath, the Everlasting arms Be felt in full support. So let him rest, Hushed like a little child, without one care; And so give Thy beloved sleep to-night.
Rest him, dear Master! He hath poured for us The wine of joy, and we have been refreshed. Now fill _his_ chalice, give him sweet new draughts Of life and love, with Thine own hand; be Thou His ministrant to-night; draw very near In all Thy tenderness and all Thy power. Oh speak to him! Thou knowest how to speak A word in season to Thy weary ones, And he is weary now. Thou lovest him-- Let Thy disciple lean upon Thy breast, And, leaning, gain new strength to 'rise and shine.'
Rest him, O loving Spirit! Let Thy calm Fall on his soul to-night. O holy Dove, Spread Thy bright wing above him, let him rest Beneath its shadow; let him know afresh The infinite truth and might of Thy dear name-- 'Our Comforter!' As gentlest touch will stay The strong vibrations of a jarring chord, So lay Thy hand upon his heart, and still Each overstraining throb, each pulsing pain. Then, in the stillness, breathe upon the strings, And let thy holy music overflow With soothing power his listening, resting soul.
A Song in the Night.
[Written in severe pain, Sunday afternoon, October 8th, 1876, at the Pension Wengen, Alps.]
I take this pain, Lord Jesus, From Thine own hand, The strength to bear it bravely Thou wilt command.
I am too weak for effort, So let me rest, In hush of sweet submission, On Thine own breast.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus, As proof indeed That Thou art watching closely My truest need;
That Thou, my Good Physician, Art watching still; That all Thine own good pleasure Thou wilt fulfil.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus; What Thou dost choose The soul that really loves Thee Will not refuse.
It is not for the first time I trust to-day; For Thee my heart has never A trustless 'Nay!'
I take this pain, Lord Jesus; But what beside? 'Tis no unmingled portion Thou dost provide.
In every hour of faintness My cup runs o'er With faithfulness and mercy, And love's sweet store.
I take this pain, Lord Jesus, As Thine own gift; And true though tremulous praises I now uplift.
I am too weak to sing them, But Thou dost hear The whisper from the pillow, Thou art so near!
'Tis Thy dear hand, O Saviour, That presseth sore, The hand that bears the nail-prints For evermore.
And now beneath its shadow, Hidden by Thee, The pressure only tells me Thou lovest me!
What will You do without Him?