Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

by Unknown

GOD'S PRESENCE

POSSESSION, SATISFACTION, REFLECTION

THE SECRET OF HIS PRESENCE

In the secret of his presence

I am kept from strife of tongues;

His pavilion is around me,

And within are ceaseless songs!

Stormy winds, his word fulfilling,

Beat without, but cannot harm,

For the Master's voice is stilling

Storm and tempest to a calm.

In the secret of his presence

All the darkness disappears;

For a sun that knows no setting,

Throws a rainbow on my tears.

So the day grows ever lighter,

Broadening to the perfect noon;

So the day grows ever brighter,

Heaven is coming, near and soon.

In the secret of his presence

Never more can foes alarm;

In the shadow of the Highest,

I can meet them with a psalm;

For the strong pavilion hides me,

Turns their fiery darts aside,

And I know, whate'er betides me,

I shall live because he died!

In the secret of his presence

Is a sweet, unbroken rest;

Pleasures, joys, in glorious fullness,

Making earth like Eden blest;

So my peace grows deep and deeper,

Widening as it nears the sea,

For my Saviour is my keeper,

Keeping mine and keeping me!

—Henry Burton.

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EYESERVICE

Eyeservice let me give

The while I live;

In shadow or in light,

By day or night,

With all my heart and skill—

Eyeservice still!

Yes, for the eyes I'll serve—

Nor faint nor swerve—

Are not the eyes of man,

That lightly scan,

But God's, that pierce and see

The whole of me!

Beneath the farthest skies,

Where morning flies,

In heaven or in hell,

If I should dwell,

In dark or daylight fair,

The Eyes are there!

No trembling fugitive,

Boldly I live

If, as in that pure sight,

I live aright,

Yielding with hand and will

Eyeservice still!

—Amos R. Wells.

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OMNIPRESENCE

Lord of all being, throned afar,

Thy glory flames from sun and star;

Center and soul of every sphere,

Yet to each loving heart how near!

Sun of our life, thy quickening ray

Sheds on our path the glow of day;

Star of our hope, thy softened light

Cheers the long watches of the night.

Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn;

Our noontide is thy gracious dawn;

Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign;

All, save the clouds of sin, are thine!

Lord of all life, below, above,

Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love,

Before thy ever-blazing throne

We ask no luster of our own.

Grant us thy truth to make us free,

And kindling hearts that burn for thee,

Till all thy living altars claim

One holy light, one heavenly flame.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

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THE CHERUBIC PILGRIM

God's spirit falls on me as dew drops on a rose,

If I but like a rose my heart to him unclose.

The soul wherein God dwells—what Church can holier be?

Becomes a walking tent of heavenly majesty.

Lo! in the silent night a child to God is born,

And all is brought again that ere was lost or lorn.

Could but thy soul, O man, become a silent night

God would be born in thee and set all things aright.

Ye know God but as Lord, hence Lord his name with ye,

I feel him but as love, and Love his name with me.

Though Christ a thousand times in Bethlehem be born,

If he's not born in thee thy soul is all forlorn.

The cross on Golgotha will never save thy soul,

The cross in thine own heart alone can make thee whole.

Christ rose not from the dead, Christ still is in the grave

If thou for whom he died art still of sin the slave.

In all eternity no tone can be so sweet

As where man's heart with God in unison doth beat.

Whate'er thou lovest, man, that, too, become thou must;

God, if thou lovest God, dust, if thou lovest dust.

Ah, would thy heart but be a manger for the birth,

God would once more become a child on earth.

Immeasurable is the highest; who but knows it?

And yet a human heart can perfectly enclose it.

—Johannes Scheffler.

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THE LARGER VIEW

In buds upon some Aaron's rod

The childlike ancient saw his God;

Less credulous, more believing, we

Read in the grass—Divinity.

From Horeb's bush the Presence spoke

To earlier faiths and simpler folk;

But now each bush that sweeps our fence

Flames with the Awful Immanence!

To old Zacchæus in his tree

What mattered leaves and botany?

His sycamore was but a seat

Whence he could watch that hallowed street.

But now to us each elm and pine

Is vibrant with the Voice divine,

Not only from but in the bough

Our larger creed beholds him now.

To the true faith, bark, sap, and stem

Are wonderful as Bethlehem;

No hill nor brook nor field nor herd

But mangers the Incarnate Word!

Far be it from our lips to cast

Contempt upon the holy past—

Whate'er the Finger writes we scan

In manger, prophecy, or man.

Again we touch the healing hem

In Nazareth or Jerusalem;

We trace again those faultless years;

The cross commands our wondering tears.

Yet if to us the Spirit writes

On Morning's manuscript and Night's,

In gospels of the growing grain,

Epistles of the pond and plain,

In stars, in atoms, as they roll,

Each tireless round its occult pole,

In wing and worm and fin and fleece,

In the wise soil's surpassing peace—

Thrice ingrate he whose only look

Is backward focussed on the Book,

Neglectful what the Presence saith,

Though he be near as blood and breath!

The only atheist is one

Who hears no Voice in wind or sun,

Believer in some primal curse,

Deaf in God's loving universe!

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

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STILL WITH THEE

Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh,

When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee;

Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight,

Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with thee.

Alone with thee amid the mystic shadows,

The solemn hush of nature newly born;

Alone with thee in breathless adoration,

In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean

The image of the morning-star doth rest,

So in this stillness thou beholdest only

Thine image in the waters of my breast.

Still, still with thee! as to each new born morning

A fresh and solemn splendor still is given,

So does this blessèd consciousness awaking

Breathe each day nearness unto thee and heaven.

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,

Its closing eyes look up to thee in prayer;

Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading,

But sweeter still, to wake and find thee there.

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning,

When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee;

O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,

Shall rise the glorious thought—I am with thee.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe.

———

There lives and works a soul in all things,

And that soul is God.

—William Cowper.

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THE ELIXIR

Teach me, my God and King,

In all things thee to see,

And what I do, in anything,

To do it as for thee.

A man that looks on glass

On it may stay his eye,

Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass

And then to heaven espy.

All may of thee partake.

Nothing can be so mean

Which with this tincture (for thy sake)

Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause

Makes drudgery divine.

Who sweeps a room as for thy laws

Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold;

For that which God doth touch and own

Cannot for less be told.

—George Herbert.

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