^hmhiAvtcdslxulmtmi Weak' 
 
"He whom Thou Lowest 
 
 is Sick." 
 
 BY 
 
 RO^ P£j '_" LET N CHILE 
 
 Author af ki Down among tke Crackerz." 
 
 'A 
 
 .- 
 
 ... _ 
 
Mi'** 
 
 Copyright, 1903, 
 
 BY 
 
 ROSA PENDLETON CHILES. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 

 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 My flDotber, 
 
 THE THOUGHT OF WHOSE MARVELOUS STRENGTH 
 AND PATIENCE IN LONG SUFFERING, WHEN SUR- 
 CEASE CAME, LEFT THE ONLY FRAGRANCE IN THE 
 HEART OF A CHILD, AND YET YIELDS FRAGRANCE 
 TO THE HEART OF A WOMAN. 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Cepies Received 
 
 MAY 18 1904 
 
 Copyright Entry 
 
 ,^ / - • ^ c * 
 CLASS a XXc. No. 
 
 o 5 o -; -) 
 
 COPY B 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 There seems a tendency of late, especially 
 among a class of so-called religious teachers, to 
 minify pain, and the beautiful service of those to 
 whom the Master appoints no other than patient 
 endurance of steadfast suffering. To these extreme 
 thinkers the patient invalid, resting beneath the 
 shadow of unceasing pain, is a mental criminal, 
 whose logic has in some way become entangled with 
 a diseased imagination, and who has but to say, 
 "There is no pain, therefore I cannot rest beneath 
 the shadow of it," and immediately his conclusion 
 will bring him to a state of perfect health. 
 
 Without formulating any syllogism to disprove 
 the tenets of this extraordinary doctrine, I wish only 
 to say that to one whose faith rests upon different 
 principles the teaching seems altogether false, and 
 to offer this little book to all suffering folk in loving 
 sympathy. If there is aught in these lines that 
 speaks to you of courage, patience, faithful endur- 
 ance, and that enables you to see your part in a better 
 light — the light of peculiar dignity, and of that 
 
 5 
 
peculiar choice for you of a part that suits the 
 mysterious development of your spirit better than 
 any other part could do — I shall feel that the 
 Master gave me a beautiful task in the writing of 
 these lines. Take them as the message of my heart 
 to yours, and I trust the warm love that fills my 
 soul for all of you who suffer — whether through 
 the sensitive nerves or in another way — may find 
 its course through this little poem to the depths of 
 feeling in your own souls. Perhaps I shall never 
 know whether my message does you good or not, 
 but my Father will, and that is all that is needful. 
 
 These lines are not meant to glorify pain, but 
 to beautify it, and to make those whose lives are 
 shut in from the great world of activity by shades 
 of pain or uncommon care, aye, common care, as 
 well, feel that they are shut in for the Master's use. 
 You see, dear hearts, the active ones are so busy that 
 the Master may not always draw them into soulful 
 conferences, but you — you know better than I could 
 tell you the hourly reminders of that Presence that 
 whispers the secrets of abiding peace. He is your 
 Comforter, and you are His. 
 
 Rosa Pendleton Chiles. 
 
"He whom Thou Lovest is Sick." 
 
 I was of late ill in a hospital, 
 
 And there Fra Ugo Bassi's sermon read, 
 
 That blessed sermon of the Vine, and as 
 
 I read, drank wine of healing the Vine bled 
 
 For broken spirits when in sacrifice 
 
 It hung stripped of its purple fruit. Then, given 
 
 In an infinite compassion, a strength 
 
 Of body returned with the spirit's strength, 
 
 That the sickened branch might the longer last 
 
 And seek in the Vine more abundant life. 
 
 And as the frail soul hung between earth-life — 
 
 A span at most — and that eternal stretch 
 
 Of time beyond it, while spring birds sang trills 
 
 Of hope, nor lent to requiem their notes, 
 
 Thought dwelt upon the Living Vine that bids 
 
 Its branches bear unstinting fruitage, while 
 
 They draw the fullness and the strength of life 
 
 From the Parent Stem, until spreading wide 
 
 In vivid beauty, the waving garlands 
 
 Shall cover hill and dale, and plenteous 
 
 In strength, yield purple clusters to refresh 
 
 7 
 
The nations. Then, because the earth lacks warmth 
 To bring to richer fruitage, some day, wrapped 
 About the Central Stem, the branches shall 
 Be drawn for perfecting where are the soil 
 And sunlight needed for perennial growth. 
 
 Then earnestly I thought of how at last, 
 When earth shall know no more the Healing Vine, 
 No more its tendrils wave in the cool air, 
 No more its graceful fruit in crimson tides 
 Flow from the wine-press, barren boughs shall be 
 Cut off, and prayed with fervent yearnings such 
 As I, wrapped in my agony, might last 
 When the day of this transplanting shall come. 
 And here my thoughts, though broken as the life 
 Then bound to narrow couch of pain, I write 
 For others that are fettered to their beds, 
 And dreaming of life in the Living Vine. 
 
 I learned 'tis not always the sickened branch 
 That is most barren, nor need any fear 
 The knife because its tendrils droop from lack 
 Of strength to stand erect. Perchance the sap 
 That would have gone to these has gone instead 
 To fruit, and where lie low the sickly stem 
 And leaf, lie also, freighted to the earth 
 By wealth of bearing, ripened clusters which 
 Await their hour to burst in scarlet streams 
 
 8 
 
Of healing. Then fret not frail branch if leaves 
 
 Green as the bay's beside thee flourish; for, 
 
 A few short days the yellowed tendrils droop 
 
 Under the fevered kisses of the sun, 
 
 And there is lack of moisture to cool 
 
 The slender veins, and then the Husbandman 
 
 Will come and cast aside not boughs that parch 
 
 And wilt above the fullness of their fruit, 
 
 But those that by their side bear only leaves. 
 
 Tis naught that green boughs lift their heads in 
 
 pride 
 Of strength, yet bear no fruit; for sick or well, 
 The fruit must yield and be alone the test 
 Of what shall live. But think not to escape 
 The Pruner's knife, thou fruitful bough, for once 
 It was declared, "Each branch in me that bears 
 No fruit He takes away, and every branch 
 That bears He purges, that this one may bear 
 More fruit." So sharp may fall the painful blade 
 Upon thy stock, and leave for all thy fruit 
 A bleeding stalk. Dost feel a quiver? Wait, 
 The bearing time will come again. 
 
 But yet 
 The vine, with all its wealth of life and strength 
 Of sacrifice, is not the only form 
 To which the Master likens you. By this 
 He speaks to men of vital life and wine 
 
That flows in offering, but when Christ shows 
 
 The world the steadfast, settled character 
 
 Of those, who "having done all, stand" in strength 
 
 And majesty immutable, He calls 
 
 Himself the Builder and his children stones — 
 
 The signs of changelessness. Now, grapes are 
 
 type 
 Of sacrifice, because the glory and 
 Perfection of their life they yield to him 
 Who treads the wine-press, but the crystal that 
 Strong pressure in the cycles of its past 
 Has fixed in permanence, yields not again. 
 
 And now beloved, if we are to be 
 Stones in that human Temple, let us have 
 The quality of stones, nor break, but bear 
 The pressure of our place, nor seek to choose 
 That place, but only rest secure and firm 
 In any portion of the wall assigned 
 Us by the Architect Divine — the joy 
 And honor of a stone is to be used 
 At all. 
 
 That Temple of Humanity, 
 Erected by Divinity, will have 
 Magnificence with which all lavishness 
 Of Byzantine and Moorish was but work 
 Of children when illusive form and tint 
 
 10 
 
Once trembling sped through Fancy's train, and 
 
 each 
 Well chosen stone will be the fairest where 
 It lies, but if there architrave and frieze 
 And cornice be, with sculptures fret, and here, 
 Where little pressure is on stones that form 
 The Temple's flower and finish, we find not 
 Our place, then let us be content to bear 
 The insistent pressure of middle walls. 
 Some stones are meant for ornament, but some 
 For other use, and which for each the stones 
 Know not, but wait upon the Builder's choice. 
 Of this alone the human block may be 
 Assured — that He who builds can never err, 
 But chooses as is fittest for the stone 
 And for the Temple. If thy place is found 
 In hidden niches of the inner wall, 
 'Tis here the greatest strength is asked and thou 
 Art chosen for an honored part. Think not 
 With envy on the fretted block, for thou 
 Wouldst spoil the frieze, and that would spoil the 
 
 wall. 
 Nor think identity to lose when sealed 
 Forever to those blocks whose semblance so 
 Makes thee one with them that none may declare 
 Wherein thy mission differs from the part 
 Of stones that hem thee in, and each to each 
 Cemented, ye make up the common mass. 
 
 ii 
 
 'LofC. 
 
The Spirit of the Temple fills each block 
 With fervent life, distinct from all beside, 
 Nor dwells alone in Psychic form of frieze 
 Or cornice. Why lament the part assigned? 
 Consider, murmurer: no capital 
 Or architrave but bears the heat and light, 
 Ay, oft the tempest, too; as well to bear 
 The pressure. 
 
 It is not for souls, to whom 
 Belongs the majesty of endless part, 
 To mar that part with murmur; as the part 
 Must live, so must the murmur live and be 
 The sours companion in its later sphere. 
 Are there no fitter ones? Yea, let your choice 
 Of all be suited to the endlessness 
 That lies before you; nor, beloved, may 
 Ye think of ease or joy of place, but as 
 The branches of the Living Vine, think e'er 
 Of sacrifice; and as the stones that make 
 That Living Temple, think of strength to bear. 
 
 Dear heart, that longs for outer life, to have 
 The angel of the breeze caress you and 
 The dews of night your fevered throbs to cool, 
 Fret not ; your place is safe from cares that tent 
 Themselves about those outer lives and spread 
 Gray mists of trouble you may never know 
 
 12 
 
Above them. Seems your portion bitter? Theirs 
 Is not all sweet. If in the chamber whose 
 Dull walls are echoes of your murmurings; 
 A voice should whisper, "All is changed, the bonds 
 Of pain are loosed," and straight the life should seek 
 The gilded ways of freedom, then would all 
 Be well ? Nay, for activity's fierce clasp 
 Might bind you closer than now bind your pain 
 And helplessness. 
 
 Lie still, beloved, for 
 The lot is ever measured to the need; 
 That need that cries without the mystery 
 Of universal plan to the one life, 
 And only one, that can its wants supply, 
 That need that cries without your inner soul 
 For place supplied in universal plan. 
 Hast never learned that in that plan our lives 
 Are made to do or bear, as in the veins 
 Of each there flow the pallid tides of pain 
 Or crimson tides of action? Not all wine 
 Of life is red, not all red wine the best, 
 But each the product of a perfect fruit. 
 The streams of labor and of suffering 
 Flow side by side, nor may we always know 
 Which current better serves the world; this God 
 Sees now, and we must wait to see. Yet this 
 Is plain — one river or the other flows 
 In ev'ry living vein. What matter which ? 
 
 13 
 
God gives the world an angel for each need 
 To watch above the lives of men in joy 
 Or woe or rest or work, and all the earth 
 Is shadowed by their presence. But He gives 
 The angel of service only two wings, 
 And one forever shelters those who all 
 Their strength from crimson dawn to silver night 
 Bestow on field and mart, while tenderly 
 The other rests o'er those that give their strength 
 From dawn to night and night to dawn to bear 
 The pain that stills from work. No life but seeks 
 Its shelter from the pinion shadowing 
 The field of labor, but 'tis not for lives 
 To choose, theirs only to accept the shade 
 That rests above them, and to pray for strength 
 To go forth gladly to the way of work 
 Or pain. What right have souls to shrink from 
 
 tasks 
 Assigned them? Theirs alone to stand supreme 
 In silence, as those who need not themselves 
 To choose, but rest beneath the choice of One 
 Who knows the part, and him who best can fill 
 It. 
 
 Souls, come get you to your place, and if 
 You watch the sky for portents, think not that 
 The soft white mass which rests above, and waves 
 Of mist to sunward dipping, gathers all 
 The gold into its bosom, is storm-cloud 
 
 H 
 
And charged to deliver bolts of wrath. 
 
 It is an angel's shadow, and clear writ 
 
 Upon its wings to all who read is this 
 
 Sweet message : "God knows who can do and who 
 
 Can bear' ; for Consolation is the twin 
 
 Of Care, and wheresoever Pain shall lead, 
 
 Ye sick ones, sore blinded by the dense fog 
 
 Of your murmurings, and who closer press 
 
 The thorns that prick you while you ever seek 
 
 Release, will Solace follow on and cry: 
 
 "This asks the Lord of you who knows how much 
 
 To ask of each." Perchance He would not ask 
 
 As much of one whose life was kissed to light 
 
 By the same dawn, or trust that one as well 
 
 To bear it. Yea, sure evidence and mark 
 
 Of His divinity is marvelous 
 
 Economy in power creative, so 
 
 That beings looking first into the dawn 
 
 Of life, yet purpled by the night through which 
 
 They came, have each their own peculiar force 
 
 And fitness for some task no other could 
 
 Perform. Perchance not one of all the hosts 
 
 That walk the strenuous ways of this world, 
 
 Flushed with the wine of energy and strength, 
 
 Or those that dwell in myriad other worlds 
 
 Of space illimitable, ever glad 
 
 In mystic labors hid behind the point 
 
 Of trembling splendor in the midnight dome, 
 
 15 
 
Could bear thy lot so well as thou. He gives 
 His confidence for this to thee alone,. 
 Then dare thou fail, or trust supreme as this 
 Betray? Nay, heart, bear on, bear well. 
 
 Look down 
 The vista of past centuries at One 
 Who 'mid the jeers and mocking of the mob, 
 The doubts of followers, the mighty weight 
 Of inner cross, when all the harmony 
 Of His eternal past was shocked by note 
 Of discord shrill, bore patiently His cross, 
 And left a crimson path to mark the way 
 For all who follow Him. Look, heart, and see 
 The scarlet thread that leads to Calvary, 
 Then follow gladly in its narrow course, 
 As one who knows the dignity of rank, 
 The glory of a royal road. 
 
 Yea, souls, 
 Must we each one stop in the onward rush 
 Of our life and see if we follow close 
 The blood-stained way, or if in weakness we 
 Have turned aside to other paths, which lead 
 Not to Golgotha and to life. Now as 
 We look by-paths are filled with souls astray; 
 While some aweary from the long, long way 
 Have laid their burdens down for respite, there 
 Are others, guilt-stained more, who wander far 
 
 16 
 
And gather here and there wild flowers, fair 
 
 To see, but yet distilling poison 
 
 Of sin and death, while butterflies with wings 
 
 Of gauze and prismic hued drink from their cups 
 
 And flutter in death on the heads of all 
 
 Who pluck. One calls, they answer not, and calls 
 
 Again, "My cross I bear." Dear Lord, forgive 
 
 That while Thou mountest that dark steep where 
 
 Pain 
 Shall run through flesh and soul and ply its course 
 To sever into twain Thy carnate life 
 From that eternal fleshless one, and thrust 
 Its knives in keenest revelry where once 
 Alone is given Pain to play in power 
 And wantonness supreme, we wander on 
 In lightsome ways, nor care that Thou Thy cross 
 Dost bear while we bear not our own. 
 
 And now 
 I beg you, ye sick ones, who marvel that 
 The angel of Ease brings you no surcease 
 Of pain, to come with me to Galilee 
 And learn how Christ in days of ministry 
 On earth then dealt with one He loved when Death 
 Stretched forth his hands to take him for his own. 
 So prone we are to feel that when He walked 
 Incarnate here glad flowers of healing sprang 
 To life where'er His footsteps fell, while now 
 
 17 
 
Men see the thorn and myrtle tree alone 
 
 Spring from His tracks when Christ comes down 
 
 unseen 
 To walk the way of life with us. And thus 
 Is sown the seed of envy in our hearts 
 Of those who touched His garment's hem and felt 
 The pulses quicken into joyous life 
 From virtue in the healing contact; but 
 YVhate'er our envy and our murmurings. 
 In that far distant time, as ever now. 
 The course of justice, with its source in God, 
 Flows on — a stream that knows no tides, nor floods 
 One spot to verdant life and barren leaves 
 Another. Healing for one life and pain 
 For one, but justice and unfailing love 
 For both. 
 
 Xow while Semitic murmurings 
 Sweep storm-gusts o'er His path and Eastern skies 
 Reverberate with Jewish thunder, now 
 While tempest whiffs and tongues of lightning smite 
 The sides of Calvary, the glory and 
 The strength of measureless sacrifice cast 
 A halo o'er the Master's life, yet we. 
 All blinden to the lambent gleam, see but 
 The Man of Love walk gently on His way 
 And wear the majesty of matchless aim 
 As humbly as the peasant wears his cloak. 
 
 18 
 
And now when comes transcendent aim to fruit 
 And fullness we see Him in Galilee, 
 Not many days' journey from Bethany, 
 And there He hears this all-pathetic cry : 
 "He whom Thou lovest, Lord, is sick." Have ye, 
 Hearts, not received a message like to this? 
 Have ye no room whose shades have once been 
 
 drawn, 
 While shades of death their blackness cast — a veil 
 'Tween soul and soul? Then, groping, did you try 
 To pierce the gloom and let the sunlight through, 
 The fragrance, and the poetry of life, 
 As if the past could have no end? But gloom 
 Like this, impervious to ev'ry sense 
 Of man, enveloped you 'til fell the calm 
 Of resignation on your souls, and you 
 Could see the angel's face, nor dreaded more 
 The shadow of his wing. 
 
 Ah ! hearts, sad hearts 
 Of loving memories, were ye far off 
 When whispered in your ear the fatal word? 
 Then how like years seemed days that interposed 
 Between you and that distant one! Nay, days 
 Were not, but nights, for shades of sorrow shut 
 Out light, nor know we day has ever been 
 Save in the thought of years now past when he 
 We love was not sick, nor were we far off. 
 
 19 
 
Was your pain great when mind and heart had 
 
 grasped 
 The meaning of the message? Think you then 
 The Master felt no sting because Death claimed 
 His friend? 
 
 When ye were called to walk the vale 
 That slopes from heights of life to waters which 
 Ne'er beat their banks but with an echo we 
 Cannot interpret, hearing the swift strokes 
 Of speechless oarsmen, and knowing your loved 
 Should be borne to the land whose visions have 
 Not met your sight, and you must stand alone 
 On the dread shore, nor even cool your brow 
 In the mysterious flood at your feet, 
 Did not a cry escape you : "Lord, I can 
 Not reach again the heights of peace if Thou 
 Go not with me"? And straight did not He make 
 His presence known, and whisper vital words 
 Of tenderness with hand to hand and heart 
 To heart, retracing with you all the vale 
 Of woe to hills of joy beyond it? Can 
 It be that He who feels the prick of thorns 
 That sting us, and when dews of sorrow bathe 
 Our brows, His own lays bare to the same mist, 
 That He who from the fount of all our joy 
 Or woe drinks deep, would not have us respond 
 With sympathetic concept to the claims 
 
 20 
 
That bring the heart of God to grief? The power 
 
 And majesty of God sit throned on heights 
 
 That we cannot approach, but once begirt 
 
 By human limits that mighty All-Soul 
 
 Was bound to earth, and note of tenderness 
 
 Awoke that sings the longing of God's heart 
 
 For tones in us responsive. Was it naught 
 
 To Christ that He must suffer Lazarus 
 
 To bear that last unconquerable pain 
 
 When power was His to stay the blade of death? 
 
 The might of God is shown not more in things 
 
 He has the power to do, than in the things 
 
 He does, but has the power not to do ; 
 
 And here is seen the only limit which 
 
 Omnipotence has placed upon itself — 
 
 The pain to exercise its power. 
 
 How sweet 
 Had been that peaceful home, set in the side 
 Of Olivet, and nursed by Southern breeze 
 And sun ! There was reserved for Him one spot 
 Alone of rest and joy serenely sweet 
 Upon the planet of His wanderings, 
 Where freed from gory grasp of strife He let 
 The fount of love in simple hearts bathe all 
 The wounds that stung and all the weariness 
 That palled. Here were three friends set in the mass 
 Of enemies as jewels in a mine 
 Of dross, and one of these was sick. 
 
 21 
 
To one 
 Who holds no bond more close all tenderness 
 Is given bonds of friendship, and their threads 
 As surely bind as stronger cords that draw 
 Hearts closer and in drawing oft give pain. 
 Last night I dreamed, and lo! a flood of light 
 That dazzled eyes accustomed not to more 
 Than tropic glare. The cause I sought and found 
 Angelic form diffused the radiance — 
 A ray of heaven's light had borne to earth 
 Its messenger — and as I trembling looked 
 Upon the form within that radiance, 
 A voice said, "Child, fear not, but answer me — 
 Believest thou in compensation?" Then 
 I thought of all whose lives seem poorly paid 
 For sorrow and for care, and answered, "Yea, 
 In heaven." "But now?" bespoke the messenger. 
 Again did vision of some human woe 
 The motive give to my conception, and 
 I gave reply, "Nay, nay, not here; in heaven." 
 "But what means this?" the angel said, and lo! 
 Without the radiance stood one who long 
 Had been beside me in each wearing care, 
 In all my blind mistakes, to help and soothe 
 Me in the fever of my living. "Child, 
 Behold thy friend," the angel said, "the Lord 
 Of heaven had no more than this when here — 
 Believest now ?" "Yea, now," unfaltering, 
 
 22 
 
I said, "I know that heaven is not all 
 Of our compensation, for much comes here." 
 Now friendship, heart, is compensation's gift 
 For closer bonds ne'er made or lost. 
 
 Dear heart, 
 When the raven of sorrow bore to thee 
 Its message writ in woe, didst tarry long? 
 Nay, nay, but envied the bird, and made 
 All haste, while o'er the soul swept waves of fear 
 That chilled the faith to freezing; but the Lord 
 Two days abode in the place where He was 
 Before He turned His steps to Bethany. 
 How gladly would His love have taken wings 
 Of spirit speed, had not a voice cried, "Nay, 
 Abide, my glory must be wrought in death 
 As well as life." As man, the love of man 
 Swept o'er His soul in tides of anguish, but 
 As God, the love of God spoke calm and peace 
 To the hot floods of human feeling. Thou 
 Couldst not have staid? Nay, heart, but in thy 
 
 depths 
 Is only human flood, and thine the strength 
 Of mortals, broken by rush of mad waves, 
 And God can do what thou canst not. Hast said 
 To thyself in wonderment: "God is good, 
 Yet suffers agony to tear the heart 
 And crush the life," and hast allowed black doubt 
 
 23 
 
To close in struggle with thy faith until 
 The Night of Unbelief her draperies 
 Of darkness has let fall upon the field 
 Of battle, wrapping folds of deep despair 
 About the soul? Then cease this struggle, heart, 
 And know that God does much beyond the power 
 Of man to understand. Why try to bound 
 Omnipotence by human concept? Thou 
 Who reasonest, hast fathomed all the mind 
 Of God? Nay, in this present world God walks 
 Beside us hand to hand and heart to heart, 
 But mind to mind alone in heaven. "Be still, 
 And know that I am God," — He suffers us 
 To know, and this is all — sufficient, too, 
 Can the frail bird that skims the air and rests 
 Its pinion on a twig of bush or tree, 
 The while with mellow strain it charms a child 
 At play, know aught of all that fills that mind — 
 Its plans of play or dreams of might? Or can 
 The child, who, tired of game and song of bird, 
 Now comes and rests its head upon thy knee, 
 Know aught of all that stirs and thrills thy life, 
 Or measure the motives that move the minds 
 Of men? Dost try, frail human mind, to know 
 Thy God? 
 
 If thou inexorable front 
 Of Pain couldst see in furrowed segment cut 
 
 24 
 
On brow of child or friend, as Suffering 
 
 His image traced in the warm flesh, and thou 
 
 The sculptor and the chisel couldst thrust out 
 
 With one stroke of the hand, and see once more 
 
 The lineless beauty of that brow, wouldst wait? 
 
 Nay, for man's strength is far too frail, but God 
 
 Can wait 'til Pain his last and boldest line 
 
 Has traced, and through that stress of agony 
 
 His marvelous design fulfills ; for know, 
 
 O heart, the strength of all is fixed in need. 
 
 What need have we to know the power that lets 
 
 Pain trace his image in the tender flesh 
 
 Of one we love? Is Pain responsible 
 
 To us? Are we the censors of his work? 
 
 God gives man strength in draughts that meet man's 
 
 need, 
 Nor suffers him to drain the fount nor see 
 Its inner depths of ruby flood. On Mount 
 Moriah Abram one potation drank, 
 And raised aloft his blade to smite the son 
 In whom lay mystery of nations' life, 
 In whom lay also love's fair promise. But 
 Death's sting lasts only while the knife falls back 
 And life's tide flows into eternity's. 
 God knew how much to ask of Abraham, 
 And ever knows how much to ask of you. 
 You could not for a day hold firm thumb-screw 
 Or rack to torture your worst enemy; 
 
 25 
 
The soul of Anguish, with its blood-stained gaze 
 Searching your soul for respite, would wring cry 
 Of pain from you : "Stop ! stop ! I cannot bear 
 To see thee longer/' But the Lord, biding 
 An hour when some frail life shall lay aside 
 The aching garment of the flesh, and wrapped 
 In robes of finer fabric, glor'ous trail 
 In eternity's halls, can hold for years 
 With iron grasp the trembling, aching, tired, 
 And dying nerves of one He loves far more 
 Than thou hast ever loved thy dearest here, 
 Till these, exhausted long, at last beat out, 
 And God's great plan for that small life is wrought. 
 
 I watched a life apart from pain and thought 
 How beautiful the soul that dwells in form 
 Like this, whose organs, free from SufFring's whip, 
 Move only at the call of joyous Good — 
 A flawless agency through which the will 
 Of God may work in all the varied forms 
 Of action; and yet fruitless flitted days 
 And weeks, and lay the listless hands, as cold 
 And motionless as stone, within her lap. 
 Again I saw this one, but lo! the face, 
 Once artist's dream, in all its curves wore marks 
 Of tort'rous pain, yet flowed the warm blood as 
 From hearts that feel, in ev'ry vein, and now 
 Rare virtues none had seen before shone forth 
 
 26 
 
So all beheld and loved a life like this. 
 Is this the way He speaks through all ? Nay, not 
 Through all, but some. If thou, dear heart, art one, 
 Be thankful. Stretch forth now thy arms and they 
 Will touch thy Lord, so close He lives to one 
 Whose form is clasped by pain. No one of all 
 His minist'rings of grace His presence needs 
 So much, nor trusts He saint nor angel, but 
 The Lord keeps for Himself the priceless task 
 Of biding with the sick. 
 
 And thou couldst not 
 Have tarried when a friend lay dying? Yea, 
 Humanity is borne upon the wings 
 Of Love to meet its sorrow — greater he 
 Who bids his sorrow wait on slower flight 
 Of Wisdom, for Love sees the cause alone, 
 Nor waits upon effects, while Wisdom looks 
 Beyond and sees eternal ends. Canst count 
 The souls now glorified because the Lord 
 Unsealed the grave at Bethany? Canst mark 
 The power of consequence? "To the intent 
 Ye should believe and God be glorified," 
 He said. What mattered then that death? As 
 
 naught, 
 And yet as much — so much that "Jesus wept," 
 For though at times, in mystery divine, 
 Full hard and crushing seemeth God's strong hand, 
 
 27 
 
And long we seek some freedom from it, then 
 
 That great Heart throbs in love transcending far 
 
 The love of women, fonder than the love 
 
 Of mothers when they first imprint a kiss 
 
 Upon the cheek of new-born babe, and thrills 
 
 With passionate feeling for all the life 
 
 Of Anguish in our veins. No quiv'ring nerve 
 
 But draws Him closer in embrace of love 
 
 And strength commingled, while we feel the grasp 
 
 of iron ringers only. Ah ! lie still, 
 
 We feel the love in God's firm touch when flesh 
 
 And mind and heart lie silent under it. 
 
 I saw the hand of Pain fall heavily 
 On one whose faith was strong as ancient oaks, 
 But one whose fragile life no vigor held 
 More than the reed — a plaything of the winds ; 
 And firmer grew the grasp inflexible, 
 Until the frail life sighed its strength away. 
 Then all who saw the depths of justice, love, 
 And mercy fathomed for a reason, while 
 One smiled without the Realm of Perfect Sight 
 And said, "God's reasons lie not in the depths 
 Of human understanding, but in heights 
 Of divine conception, involving more 
 Than ye on earth may know, nor should ye seek 
 To know, but only to accept." 
 
 28 
 
Dear heart, 
 That wearied art with long, long suffering, 
 And seest only more to take its place 
 And sharper as the nerves grow tenderer, 
 Drink deeper at the fount of patience; let 
 Its cool draughts calm unrest that flows, a mad 
 And fevered current, in thy veins. The soul 
 That dwells within the fount will soothe thy life 
 And whisper revelation's truth to come; 
 For, heart, in this is paradox complete — 
 That he who waits in patient ignorance 
 Awakes in perfect knowledge. Does some voice 
 Tell thee the time is long? Wait, wait, brave heart, 
 Enduring 'til the throbbing life of pain 
 Is done. 
 
 Seems that yoke heavy which He told 
 Us should be light? Yea, heart, but burdens are 
 Not reckoned by the Master for their weight 
 Upon the tender flesh, but for their load 
 Upon the vital spirit, so He speaks 
 Unto that vital life and says, "Ye shall 
 Find rest unto your souls." The Father ne'er 
 Forgets the tortured nerves, nor counts as naught 
 The anguished music of those trembling chords, 
 But rest is for the soul. 
 
 Hast felt thyself 
 Forsaken when the pain was hard to bear? 
 
 29 
 
Tis then with soul to soul the Lord stands by 
 And bears the hardest part Himself, although 
 Thou mayst not see nor feel His presence by. 
 How think you Laz'rus felt, the giant, Life, 
 And giant, Death, their mighty bolts fierce hurled 
 Unto the mortal end, and knowing well 
 The battle's issue ? Ah ! what then of that 
 All-loving Friend and Lord whose power had raised 
 So many other men? Hast thought this one 
 Whose sun of life had set and left but one 
 Red streak on the horizon's brim — a thought 
 That burned within the brain — cried not as yet 
 The Lord Himself should cry, "All! 'why hast 
 
 Thou 
 Forsaken me ?' " Had Christ forsaken him ? 
 Nay, nor will He forsake a single one 
 Of you. Lean on the air invisible 
 And know that He is in it. Though thou canst 
 Not feel the thrilling Form, yet close He holds 
 Thee in His arms, and will not let thee go, 
 For love, for very love, because thy pain 
 Is needful for thy perfecting. Why seek 
 Release so soon? God's promise is to him 
 Enduring steadfast to the end, and still 
 'Neath all the purpling woe that brews to storms 
 Above. No limit set on crucial tests 
 Save dissolution only, so thou canst 
 Not say, "To-day, to-morrow, and my soul 
 
 30 
 
Shall leave its prison for a freer air." 
 Wouldst try to change God's broader limit? 
 
 Ah! 
 Ye souls with whom discipling is pain 
 And long endurance fellowship, none know 
 So well as ye that for a service great 
 As yours must strength and patience sink their roots 
 Into the very Rock of Life, and drink 
 Their nourishment from waters under it. 
 No other souls have need of strength like yours, 
 For these, released from trial for the rest 
 Of night, have time to walk in the cool air 
 At eve, to meet the living form of Joy, 
 While ye at dawn or noon or night, must bide 
 Forever in the furnace of your pain. 
 Ah ! ye know well your need, then put forth 
 
 strength, 
 O souls of greater tests, and marvel not 
 That ye must bear so much, but marvel that 
 He chooses you to bear. 
 
 In olden time 
 Were three who walked unscathed amidst white 
 
 flames, 
 Because beside them walked One who is Lord 
 Of elements, and since vast hosts have trod 
 The flames, all with the same companionship. 
 
 3i 
 
Is none a martyr save one whom the arm 
 Of Fire encircles? Are not martyrs, too, 
 They who lie long, long years in the white flames 
 Of sickness, bound to their beds as to stakes, 
 And still because God's way for them lies where 
 A furnace burns intense, but hidden? Yea, 
 And some are ye. Would miss your martyrdom, 
 Afraid to try the flame? Come, courage, souls, 
 God's hand controls the furnace of your pain 
 To stay it when your life has had its pure 
 Refining. Yea, and more, for harshest tongues 
 Of flame can never drown the melody 
 That trembles on His words, as by thy side 
 And hand in hand, the Master whispers, "Child, 
 Fear not, 'tis I, bear on." 
 
 Didst dream at first 
 And pray that death would end ere long the throb 
 Of nerves, tossed as by summer winds is tossed 
 The aspen's leaf, and rocked by sweep of storms 
 And counter sweep, and twisted, torn, yet held 
 As aspen's leaf in life? Most prayers God holds 
 In secret chambers of His heart — the room 
 Of worship, treasury of offering, 
 But this? Is this one treasure, heart? What 
 
 right 
 Have souls to offer such? Could one of you 
 Now stand and say, "My work is done and I 
 
 32 
 
Would have my rest?" Thy rest from what? Ah! 
 
 bear 
 A little yet. The heart must not life's tide 
 Cut off by sudden stop, but beat out throb 
 By throb, on God's strict records numbered, known 
 Alone to Him and thee. 
 
 Our souls, dear heart, 
 Are flowers, blooming ever in the air 
 Of an infinite love, and some may bloom 
 And pass in a day, but yet others must 
 Preserve their sweetness, and for this must yield 
 Themselves to crushing rollers 'til the life 
 Is slowly shed in fragrance that shall last; 
 Just as the jasmine blossoms may delight 
 A fleeting moment and ephemeral 
 Then pass away, but some rare buds allow 
 Not winged sprites that in a sixty-breaths 
 Of time have gone to bear their sweetness off, 
 And so consent to maceration that 
 The attar of jasmine may longer please 
 The sense of men. 
 
 Confess thy thoughts of life : 
 Hast dreamed of happiness the portion here, 
 And heaven bliss immortalized? Is all 
 Of life a quick progression in the things 
 That make for bliss, with ease on ease and joy 
 
 33 
 
On joy and ecstasy on ecstasy, 
 
 All ravishment and rapture, while we mount 
 
 The golden ladder, rung on rung, 'til lost 
 
 To sight in skies whose blue envelops joys 
 
 Eternalized? Know, dreaming soul, thine is 
 
 The pilgrim's progress, and outstretched lie field 
 
 And moor and mount, all filled with terrors which 
 
 Make men's hearts start without their place for fear, 
 
 Ere faintest gleam from yonder Jasper Throne 
 
 Shall break upon the groping sight. A dream, 
 
 A vision life, and filled with phantasies? 
 
 A zephyr's breath and day with music thrilled? 
 
 A fluttering of rose leaves, then a sense 
 
 Of perfumed air? Nay, heart, for life is more. 
 
 Trace on Time's Record Book the service done 
 
 By souls and know their life, and thus alone, 
 
 For time is marked by deeds; a day may be 
 
 A thousand years, its book of deeds possess 
 
 A thousand leaves, if this was filled with good; 
 
 A thousand years not e'en a day, its book 
 
 Of deeds one whited blank, if empty these 
 
 Have passed. Yea, life is long, fierce action, 
 
 wrought 
 In patient strength — who does or bears the best, 
 He fullest is of life. 
 
 Hast watched the skies 
 Of life and thought the blue no broidery 
 
 34 
 
Could have but that in silver, crimson, gold, 
 And emerald ? Ah ! see the needle ply 
 In blackness, tempest, and tornado; e'er 
 Must these their portion add to make complete 
 The glory of the whole, for detail is 
 But ornament of shadow. Are the seas 
 Of life ne'er swept but by the sporting waves 
 Of joy, as they chase each other in play? 
 Gaze on and see those waters dash their force 
 Against the ships that ride them, leap in air 
 To meet the storm, embrace its gloom, and fall 
 Upon their beds to rise in greater strength 
 And battle to the end. No life has place 
 For stagnant skies or stagnant seas; then, heart, 
 Let action rule the current of the soul 
 (Though oft the body lies upon its bed) 
 And sweep it onward, onward, 'til it meets 
 The River in its course. 
 
 Another's life 
 Hast watched, and thought thine own the harder? 
 
 Thou 
 Art not concerned with this; to mortals it 
 Is not given to weigh their lives in scales 
 That balance perfectly — adjustment lies 
 With God. Full often thoughts like this strike deep 
 At Nature's sorest point and sink their shafts 
 Into the vulnerable flesh and find 
 
 35 
 
Their way to vital parts. The invalid 
 
 Bound fast upon his couch, with sharp intent 
 
 Bent to the problem, wonders why fresh life 
 
 Throbs in the veins of one who walks the way 
 
 Without, as free as the wild bird to find 
 
 Its course, and never knowing aught of all 
 
 The passionate purpose that sets its seal 
 
 On him, and works its magic course in throb 
 
 On throb of pain, save such ephemeral 
 
 Impression as must come to all at sight 
 
 Of tense and pallid features — portraiture 
 
 Of suffering. And ever deeper sinks 
 
 The blade of thought to bring to naught Pain's work 
 
 Of love, and make thee feel that thine is lot 
 
 The hardest. Not alone is pain, perchance, 
 
 The portion, but the pain that seeks to bear 
 
 Thee company because thou lackest close 
 
 Companionship of earth and hast no life 
 
 Near linked to thine; but thou, mistaking all 
 
 The motive of thy sympathizer, canst 
 
 See only bitter made more bitter, and 
 
 Cry out that sharp and stinging pain is borne 
 
 The hardest with no soul on thy account 
 
 To feel distress — nor parent, child, nor one 
 
 To whom the life draws nearer whispering: 
 
 "Heart, this is pain to me," and here the plaint 
 
 Is fixed in truth. 'Tis hard to have no soul 
 
 To whom thou art most precious walking close 
 
 36 
 
Beside thee down the deep, deep ways of pain, 
 
 When feet that tingle with the constant sting 
 
 Of nettles dread to take one other step, 
 
 And hands that reach for help and quiver meet 
 
 But thorns on ev'ry overhanging branch 
 
 That promises support. Down all the steep, 
 
 Rock-covered ways of agony one likes 
 
 To feel the influence of fond caress 
 
 And falling tear to soothe to calm repose 
 
 The broken spirit. Is not the request 
 
 But small ? "Dear Lord, I'll bear the pain, I'll bear 
 
 It all, but grant me this one little thing — 
 
 A breath of love to soothe it." Ever is 
 
 It hard to lean on Him alone; though His 
 
 The only presence that can give us peace, 
 
 Humanity so potent is we fain 
 
 Would grasp forms tangible, and pray our Lord 
 
 To visit us in the person of one 
 
 Held dear by human ties. The feeling is 
 
 A form of nature common as the lips 
 
 That plead, and He who made us dust will bear 
 
 With human throbs, not for our sakes alone, 
 
 But to uphold the love that stoopeth low 
 
 To our infirmities. 'Tis hard that thou 
 
 Shouldst be inflexibly locked in the arms 
 
 Of Pain, with ev'ry sense of body dulled, 
 
 Save only the fast feeling nerves, and see 
 
 Another walk down Freedom's sunlit paths 
 
 37 
 
And following some gilded dream of hope 
 
 To sure fulfilment — hope that thou hast hid 
 
 Behind the shadows of thy lot; or worse, 
 
 Perchance, 'tis hard to feel the fetters drawn 
 
 About thee, yet be pressed by some severe 
 
 Necessity to labor for thy part, 
 
 And drag thy irons to the daily task. 
 
 And bear each morn the sting of nerves that fain 
 
 Would be forever stilled, and find no rest 
 
 At night, and yet with morn thy labors must 
 
 Again pursue, subsistence for thy pains 
 
 To earn and keep alive the aches and throbs 
 
 Of life (O mockery of mockeries!), 
 
 While yonder, fetterless, another moves, 
 
 Thrilled with strength, and glad as the spring-bird 
 
 For very living. But hush all the wild 
 
 And bitter plaint ('tis this that robs the lot 
 
 Of sweet), and thank thy Lord he chooses thee 
 
 To bear, as one held worthy of a trust. 
 
 Yea, heart, be glad for very living, too, 
 
 Glad as the morning star that glows serene 
 
 Between the bars of crimson sky, when dawn 
 
 First beams from the lap of the night. Look up 
 
 To the infinite heavens, whose repose 
 
 Broods above weary spirits. Listen, heart, 
 
 To the glad music of the spheres — a strain 
 
 Too fine for souls not sensitive from pain 
 
 To hear — at some lone hour when sleep has left 
 
 38 
 
Thy eyes, and gazing out into the night 
 
 And space illimitable, they behold 
 
 Those limpid balls swing each in place, nor clash, 
 
 Nor murmur, but each star accepting its 
 
 Own fixed orbit, moves therein by day, 
 
 By year, by century, and sings the march 
 
 Of pure content. While greater lights move on 
 
 Content, should lesser ones complain? Not one 
 
 Of all the galaxy, breathed to its place 
 
 By word supreme, gave forth a trembling note 
 
 Of discord until mortals found their place, 
 
 And made of earth the Star of Variance. 
 
 Has Thought turned murmurer, and asked thee 
 why 
 Thy bark is caught within the maelstrom and 
 Whirled in mad circles by the twisting waves, 
 While on the gentle heave of quiet seas 
 Another bark glides smooth and joyous on 
 To its appointed haven? Stay this plaint, 
 Nor mar with fretful murmurings the life 
 That God is trying to perfect. Walk close 
 Beside Him as He meets thee on the shore 
 Of Galilean Sea within thy soul, 
 Then ask him face to face, "And what shall this 
 Man do?" The blue ripples will rhythmic bear 
 His answer on and on to further seas, 
 And far beyond the whirlpool that has caught 
 
 39 
 
Thy barge within its swirlings, "What is that 
 To thee?" What right have I, dear Lord, to ask 
 Thy plan for any other? Is it not 
 Sufficient thou hast planned for me? 
 
 Would miss 
 Your pain ? Nay, think what else to lose beside - 
 A soul of finer finish. Does the vale 
 Between the everlasting hills that shows 
 Its solid green beneath white daisies blown 
 Above, look to another as to thee? 
 Are trills of mock-bird's song, that rhythmic stir 
 On leaves of the oak which repeat their thrill 
 In shadows on thy bed, as exquisite 
 Of melody to any other as 
 To thee? Are violets as sweet? Nay, some 
 Are poets while they walk the world without, 
 But all may poets be while bound to couch 
 Of pain. Can one intoxicant with strength 
 And caught in outer circles of life's whirl, 
 Weave glory in each light and shade or hear 
 Seraphic choirs in common sounds? Can such 
 An one in sleep too deep for dreams behold 
 The visions waiting on thy fragile rest? 
 Are these e'er kissed by angels in their sleep, 
 Or do they talk with God Himself in hours 
 When all are held in silent rest but He 
 And thou? Nay, bear the pain for poet's eye 
 
 40 
 
And transformation's symmetry of soul. 
 
 A mere block in the sculptor's hand may change 
 
 To Psychic dream, yet feel no thrill of pain 
 
 In transformation, but when God would bring 
 
 A soul to perfectness, the chisel falls 
 
 On spots so delicate that only He 
 
 Can see and thou canst feel. 
 
 Ye may not know 
 The wherefore of your pains; this only doth 
 Appear — the largest good to you, some dear 
 One, or an enemy. What matter why ? 
 Have ye, beloved, not enough to think 
 Of how to bear? It is not given souls 
 To know all things, but it is given each 
 To bear its lot, and this for solace — back 
 Of all is God. 
 
 The order of events 
 Has marked for each its correlate — for smiles 
 Are tears, for joy is grief, for restful ease 
 The throbbing pang, as Nature balances 
 Her mounts with vales, her seas with continents, 
 And day with night. Should life without the soul 
 More beauty show than life within ? Nay, heart, 
 The golden curtain of thy day is lined 
 With sable, as the curtain of the earth 
 Anon hangs dark or light, and now thy dreams 
 
 4i 
 
Are 'neath the shadow of the darker fold. 
 
 Couldst dream as well in sunlight ? Ah ! thy bed 
 
 Is drawn within the shadows now to let 
 
 Thee dream. But one may say that dreams are dark 
 
 If born in shadow. Nay, more marvelous, 
 
 For He who paints thy visions dwells in shade 
 
 When thou art there. 
 
 If not within the life 
 Is found for ease and pain an even scale, 
 The correlate must be without it, and 
 If pain thy portion be in balancing 
 Another's ease, why question, heart? If some 
 Must suffer, why not thou? Yea, take the part 
 In thankfulness that ease has come to one 
 If not to thee. But yesterday there lay 
 A birdling on my hearth, sore bruised by fall 
 From nest above, nor soothing took, nor food, 
 But gasped for hours (in bird-life long), while that 
 Same hour his fellows dipped their graceful wings 
 In the clear ether, circling joyous, taught 
 By mother-bird to fly. Must bird-lives have 
 Their correlate of ease and pain while we 
 Have only ease? 
 
 But one may say, "I'd bear 
 My own pain, howsoever sharp — the pain 
 That comes from some mistake or sin of mine — 
 
 42 
 
But this comes from another's error, and 
 
 Transmitted unto me by one I know 
 
 Not, nor have loved, and long ere they that gave 
 
 Me life were born, this soul poured in the veins 
 
 Of a child the bitter cup of its pains, 
 
 And went into the infinite to find 
 
 Its place, nor can my suffering weave joy 
 
 Or woe in the unalterable lot. 
 
 Ah ! heart, hast never learned that souls must drink 
 
 The wine poured out for them in cup that holds 
 
 The dregs another left, nor once may stop 
 
 To dwell upon the bitterness, but drink 
 
 'Til all is drained, and see that no lees left 
 
 Embitter cup that passes from their hand? 
 
 Ah! there, dear heart, is all the bitterness — 
 
 The passing from thy hand, when the cold eyes 
 
 Of Dumb Reproach without the future rise 
 
 To plead their cause. But if thou mayst not stay 
 
 Transmission of thy part, then see there goes 
 
 With pain a spirit beautified by peace. 
 
 Thy pain thou mayst not give to all, but such 
 
 Alone as spring from flesh and blood of thine, 
 
 But patience, grace, and strength are flowers that 
 
 wrap 
 Their tendrils round the souls of all who know 
 Thee, and from these extend to other souls, 
 And on their sweetness trail and sink their roots 
 In fertile soil and bear a fragrant bloom. 
 
 43 
 
Then, heart, when all is said the tale of life 
 Is soon spelled out. Yea, while we close our ears 
 To miss the bitter climax, inner sense 
 Reveals the climax past, for time waits not 
 Upon our fears, but ever bears us on 
 In flight more swift than that of storm-swept birds 
 To our appointed end. Why fret while hours 
 With pinions for the swiftest flight, which rest 
 Not neither day nor night, make unseen course 
 Through unseen air to unseen worlds? A few 
 Strokes of the mystic pinion, and no more 
 Thy pains will live to fret thee, but some spring 
 Of action God designed by these to put 
 In motion, lives, and starts fresh springs each day 
 In other souls, and on through centuries 
 It moves, nor knows a limit save the end 
 Of time, when days shall mingle with the one 
 Vast aeon of eternity as fresh 
 Drops mingle with the endless sea, and there, 
 Transformed, will meet thee in that Everness 
 In potent form of beauty and of love. 
 If pain of yours, wreathed in the blossomings 
 Of patience, cause some spring of love to move 
 In other souls — the beggar feeds, or clothes 
 The needy, shows the rich man and the poor 
 In loving fellowship, awakes one soul 
 To smile into its Maker's eyes and meet 
 His smile, then know your pain is no vain thing, 
 
 44 
 
Nor need you envy him whose portion is 
 
 To drink the wine of vital energy, 
 
 And stand within the forum masterful 
 
 In active strength — they serve as well who lie 
 
 And suffer. 
 
 Now, again of Lazarus : 
 What matter that Death claim his own ? As naught, 
 And yet as much, for God's great heart was moved 
 To sympathy of tears. So when He plans 
 For thee. Though pain is woven in thy lot — 
 The very woof and web of life — and this 
 Enough for thee to know, yet often as 
 The night watches find Him and thee alone, 
 With the harsh garment of thy pain drawn close 
 About thee, then the tears of God fall so 
 That thou canst almost feel them on thy face. 
 Did Jesus weep for Lazarus alone? 
 Nay, heart, behold His tears for thee. Draw close, 
 Look face to face into the watching eyes 
 And see the heart of love; breathe low, and miss 
 No note of all the throbbing tenderness 
 That beats above thee; lose no whisper as 
 He bids thee follow while he leads from vale 
 To peak, from peak to summit, far upborne 
 From regions of our grosser sight, as once 
 On Tabor three disciples stood. Wilt tell 
 Thy nurse a pleasant dream has soothed thee ? Yea, 
 
 45 
 
The dreams of one who follows where He leads 
 Are ever pleasant, nor are all His mounts 
 Called Calvary. 
 
 Think not, dear heart, that I 
 Forget the harder part, nor say, 'This one 
 Has never suffered." Nay, I have, nor can 
 Forget my fretting 'neath His rod, yet when 
 The iron Hand inflexible has lain 
 Upon me, nor would loose its clasp for cry 
 Of mine, I then have felt the throbbing love 
 That held the Hand in steadfastness and soothed 
 My spirit, until grown submissive, all 
 Mad fretting ceased, and with my Lord I climbed 
 The heights to Tabor, and there prayed for strength 
 To reach the higher point of Calvary, 
 For Tabor is half-way upon the road, 
 But Calvary its end. 
 
 I count myself 
 Unworthy to e'en touch the fevered brow 
 Of one of you, who, calm in spirit, now 
 Lies kissed by Pain, and patient in that clasp 
 Inflexible, long years await surcease 
 That comes with death alone, yet feels no throb 
 Of murmur, but as something treasured close 
 You press your pangs and take them for a bond 
 Most precious, knowing that the touch of pain 
 
 46 
 
Is but the kiss of God. Your couch is ground 
 So hallowed such as I, whose suffering 
 Has stirred a harsher note, dare not approach 
 You nearer than to touch the draperies 
 About your bed and kiss their sacred folds 
 In thankfulness that such as you can prove 
 The blessedness of pain. Could any count 
 It small in you to rest in silence and 
 Serenity within the steadfast Arms, 
 Seraphic radiance upon your brow 
 And smile of joy upon your lips, with ears 
 Deaf to discordant notes in tortured frame, 
 And hearing only the soft lullaby 
 That God ne'er sings but to the one He holds 
 Thus close? Nay, heart, by the tierce pains of Him, 
 Who since no higher service He could give 
 To God and men gave suffering, we know 
 Full well its mightiness, and must believe 
 That He who gave it will receive it as 
 A service glorious as all men do 
 Or long to do. But this is asked to make 
 The service fit — the love that takes it as 
 It would another task and ever bears 
 In patient faithfulness. And here the soul 
 Should wing its flight through all infinitude, 
 Nor rest till at the throne of Power it cries 
 For strength, nor rise 'til strength is given — 
 a strength 
 
 47 
 
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 3 Master of all pains grant 1 c 
 
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Of all the qualities that move in men 
 And thrill to action, ever hath been love 
 Esteemed the strongest, most to motive power 
 That works in God akin. Could He whose heart 
 Is source of love and makes it well of all 
 The best in us, have other fountain-spring 
 When comes our turn to have the body, heart, 
 And life wrought in the infinite plan ? Ah ! 
 Your pains are tokens of dilection, for 
 Your life is ruled by One who loves, and you 
 Of that great love are object. Calls the bird 
 Unto its mate in the fathomless depths 
 Of the blue, and in rifted rock, far down 
 The sunless cliff, a flower springs to view 
 Of Him alone who walks abroad at eve 
 In canon solitudes; in mother's arms 
 A babe coos to the smiles that woo it, and 
 All by the Father's love o'ershadowed, 
 As thou. Tis sweet to be with babe and bird 
 And blossom object and delight of love 
 Like this. Hast led thy feet o'er rough-hewn paths 
 And fields where thorns have torn ? Well, what of 
 
 that? 
 Wouldst thou have missed the love that led thee 
 
 thence ? 
 
 "He lieth sick whom Thou dost love." Swift 
 borne 
 
 49 
 
By angels, the sad message finds thy Lord 
 Ere consciousness has caught the sting of pain 
 From the all-faithful nerves. Perchance, as once, 
 The Master tarries. What of that? Shall He 
 Whose power inherent holds the universe 
 To its balance and swings above it heaven 
 Of perfectness, to which the motive moves 
 In all its worlds, in which their promise ends, 
 Now speed his steps to stay thy pains? And yet, 
 If best for thee, dear heart, how swifter than 
 The storm's breath would the Lord of Healing find 
 His place beside thee. 
 
 No marvel was it 
 The man of Bethany must walk alone 
 To the River's brink and alone sink down 
 In the engulfing depths. The Master looked 
 With loving eyes down all the centuries 
 At the long, long train of suffering folk 
 Who should give body, hope, and life to serve 
 Him in their turn, and said, "For these I must 
 Abide, that they may know the love that works 
 Through pain." He tarried then, dear heart, to 
 
 teach 
 Thy lesson and that other needful one 
 Of strengthened faith through miracle of life 
 Restored, and motive power of both was love — 
 Love that in faithfulness must ever hold 
 
 50 
 
Its purpose greater than the pain in which 
 It worketh. Yet the very record shows 
 The tenderness that yearns to all to whom 
 The Lord appoints discipling that works 
 In the sensitive flesh. It had not so 
 Appealed to thee to say that Lazarus 
 Was sick, but "he Thou lovest" makes as thine 
 The message, for the Master loves thee, too, 
 And thou as Lazarus must wear the cross 
 Of pain, nailed fast to the pitiless weight. 
 'Tis for the well to bear their cross, the sick 
 Must wear it, pinioned to its outstretched arms 
 In lines of unpitying, last strength. 
 
 The worship of song is fragrance of joy 
 From flowers that bloom in the soul's glad day, 
 The worship of prayer is incense exhaled 
 From hearts that burn choicest spice of life 
 In offering, but worship of the pain 
 That never ceaseth is the offering 
 Of life itself, and this the Master asks 
 From some of you. 
 
 'Tis strange we should mistake 
 For evidence of hate the faithful strokes 
 Of love. Not thus the feeling to one who 
 Administers the part of parent here. 
 A moment may the faithful rod seem mark 
 
 5i 
 
Of hate, but when the mother's arms once clasp 
 Us to her throbbing heart, we must believe 
 That love is there, and so the passionate 
 Caress return, and on the anguished breast 
 The curtain of sleep falls on our small hurt,, 
 And we know naught but that an angel kissed 
 Us in our dreams and left upon our cheek 
 A tear, then wake to smile into the eyes 
 That watch above us. and a deeper sense 
 Within us stirs. Yet when God's hand doth hold 
 The rod in love. deep. warm, transforming, we 
 In bitterness complain that yonder one. 
 Whose life moves in a golden dream, is child 
 Of love., and we. to whom he draws so close, 
 Forsaken ones. Ah ! heart, thy reasoning 
 Is false, but lay aside all reason, and 
 Then feel his love. Some things we know by 
 
 thought. 
 But not the deeper things that link to God. 
 "When souls reach out and grasp the Infinite 
 There is no room for thought, but only love 
 That feels, and knows because it feels. 
 
 Last night 
 I sent my soul into the universe 
 Of earth and sea and sky to find the law 
 That underlies the cosmic sweep of worlds 
 And all their innerness. "'Oh! tell me. soul," 
 
I said, "Why earth, this rocky mass that sprang 
 
 From chaos into symmetry, and bound 
 
 By the illimitable deep, sweeps on 
 
 To cosmic harmony in circles not 
 
 Seen but appointed, was breathed to life 
 
 By Word Omnipotent? And why those lights 
 
 That burn about it, but yet gravitate 
 
 In other circles, swung to melody, 
 
 All threading limited and certain paths 
 
 In the illimitable, boundless heavens?" 
 
 And soon my soul returned and answered, "Love 
 
 Is law of these." "But soul, if love is law 
 
 Of stars and suns, find now the law that made 
 
 And governs lesser things." And then my soul 
 
 Replied, "No flower nor fish nor bird nor beast 
 
 Nor man but lives by law of love, deep writ 
 
 In Mind Omniscient." "One thing more, O soul, 
 
 The law that governs suffering," and straight 
 
 My soul sped to the heights of Calvary 
 
 And sought the form of Pain Supreme, as hung 
 
 That trembling passion of eternal Love 
 
 In sensate shape, and felt far sharper than 
 
 Mere mortals feel the shafts that ran through nerve 
 
 And flesh, for here was strength of feeling keyed 
 
 To sentient power of God. My soul looked long 
 
 Into the yearning passion of the eyes, 
 
 As pinioned to the cross in lines of steel 
 
 And pillowed on the thorn-set crown, there hung 
 
 53 
 
The Form Supreme, the living, dying God, 
 The image of Eternal Love outlined 
 In consummated, gathered force of pain 
 That man could bear not in this world alone 
 But rather that that in eternal woes 
 Of the abyss awaited him, and now- 
 Expressed in concentrated agonies 
 Of hell, and taken into nerve and sense 
 Of God, suspended in the midday air 
 Of midnight gloom, no artist's dream of woe, 
 But living form of Love in sacrifice. 
 Say not that sight of Love has ne'er appeared, 
 But only concept in the poet's mind — 
 An outline framed by the sensitive soul; 
 For Love hath once appeared, yet in no lines 
 Of unimpassioned beauty, but the strong, 
 Impressioned, passionate outlines of life 
 In suffering. Xo need to tell thee now 
 The answer that my soul brought back to me, 
 Xo need to whisper now of law that weaves 
 Itself in fabric of thy pain, for woof 
 Of Christ's fierce agony is woof of thine — 
 The love that weaves to perfecting in web 
 Of suffering. Then falter not, but bear, 
 Beloved, bear on to the hidden end — 
 The end whose unapparence gives to faith 
 Its golden glow — nor pray the Father that 
 He send to thy side the angel of Ease. 
 But the angel of Strength. 
 
 54 
 
MAY 18 WW 
 
i* BR AKV op