Ah, Lord!
How short a prayer may be,
Yet reach to thee!
Nor hath it far to go;
And if it seem to rise, as incense, from below,
Yet is its first, invisible, silent flow,
Downward on me;
From the Higher to the lower,
From the lower to the Higher,
In one eternal circle darts the Heavenly fire.
The joy to think
That every reaching forth to good that’s given,
Is but a new and golden link
’Tween earth and heaven;
That (whatsoe’er our spirit zone may be)
Love to thee, Lord! means ever love from thee.
Nathless, would I begin
By telling all my sin,
Which yet cannot be told!
(How shall I separate new things from old?)
Nor needs it now to unfold
The dismal story of a wasted prime;
Better to use this richly dowered time,
In pressing straight
To Heaven’s gate,
And handing in my cause to man’s Great Advocate.
“We have an Advocate” with Thee,
Yea, one in Thee;
Ah, wherefore should I fear Thou wilt not pardon me?
I fear my fear, I love my love;—
Make fear grow less and love grow more;
And hour by hour
Give growing power,
And calm where all was storm before.
“Poor little Child, poor little Child,
By a butterfly chase from home beguiled,
Trembling, lonely, and earth-defiled,
Poor little Child, poor little Child!
Listen to me; no further roam,
I will lift you where you are lying;
Cease your crying, your sobbing, your sighing,
I will carry you home!”
Now I ask, what made me kind to-day
To the poor little Child that had lost its way?
Ah, that gracious seed in me
Fell from no created tree!
Human love is from Love Divine;
The pity in me was God’s, not mine,
His from eternity.
A book may be torn, defaced, defiled,
And yet give a glimpse of its author’s plan;
If a man will pity a wandering child,
Will a God not pity a wandering man?