BLINDNESS.
The Lord openeth the eyes of the blind.—Psalm cxlvi. 8.
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened.—Isaiah, xxxv. 5.
He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind.—Luke, iv. 18.
Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart.—Ephesians, iv. 18.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s works, or his own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
Is kingly, thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve, who only stand and wait.”
Milton.
There is a poor Blind Man, who every day,
In summer sunshine, or in winter’s rain,
Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane,
Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear
The chanted service pealing full and clear.
Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels
Through the long year? Oh! the wide world is cold,
As dark to him; here, he no longer feels
His sad bereavement—Faith and Hope uphold
His heart—he feels not he is poor and blind,
Amid the unpitying tumult of mankind:
As thro’ the aisles the choral anthems roll,
His soul is in the choirs above the skies,
And songs, far off, of angel companies.
Oh! happy, if the Rich—the Vain—the Proud—
The plumed Actors in life’s motley crowd,—
Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,—
Would learn one Lesson from a poor Blind Man.
Lisle Bowles.
I see, and yet I see not; outward things
Are visible unto me: I behold
The fresh, cool verdure of succeeding springs;
The glories of the summer manifold;
The forests rich with their autumnal gold;
The creatures beautiful, that spread their wings
In the warm sunshine; blossoms that unfold
Bright as man’s hopes and vain imaginings.
The glories of the universe are spread
Before me, and I see them with delight:
Yet am I blind of heart, and cold, and dead
To spiritual things. God grant me light
To understand, and warmth to feel, and grace
Thy message to receive—Thy wondrous power to trace.
Egone.
But in God’s temple the great lamp is out,
And he must worship glory in the dark!
Till death, in midnight mystery, hath brought
The veiled soul’s re-illuminating spark—
The pillar of the cloud enfolds the Ark!
And, like a man that prayeth underground
In Bethlehem’s rocky shrine, he can but mark
The lingering hours by circumstance and sound,
And break, with gentle hymns, the solemn silence round.
Yet still life’s better light shines out above!
And in that village church, where first he learned
To bear his cheerless doom, for heaven’s dear love,
He sits, with wistful face, for ever turned
To hear of those who heavenly pity earned;
Blind Bartimæus, and him desolate,
Who for Bethesda’s waters vainly yearned:
And only sighs, condemned so long to wait,
Baffled and helpless still, beyond the Temple gate!
Mrs. Norton.