"Alas, the awful fight with death!
The hours to hang and die!
The thirsting gasp for common breath!
The weakness that would cry!"
My soul returned: "A faintness soon
Will shroud thee in its fold;
The hours will bring the fearful noon;
'Twill pass—and thou art cold."
"'Tis his to care that thou endure,
To curb or loose the pain;
With bleeding hands hang on thy cure—
It shall not be in vain."
But, ah, the will, which thus could quail,
Might yield—oh, horror drear!
Then, more than love, the fear to fail
Kept down the other fear.
I stood, nor moved. But inward strife
The bonds of slumber broke:
Oh! had I fled, and lost the life
Of which the Master spoke?
VI.
Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial
The last shades darken, friends say, "He was good;"
I struggling fail to speak my faint denial—
They whisper, "His humility withstood."
I, knowing better, part with love unspoken;
And find the unknown world not all unknown:
The bonds that held me from my centre broken,
I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.
How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder;
I think I know what I will say to him;
I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder,
I fear no passing vision great and dim.
But he knows all my weary sinful story:
How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair?
I come to him in all his conquered glory,
Won from the life that I went dreaming there!