IN THE NIGHT.
As to her child a mother calls,
"Come to me, child; come near!"
Calling, in silent intervals,
The Master's voice I hear.
But does he call me verily?
To have me does he care?
Why should he seek my poverty,
My selfishness so bare?
The dear voice makes his gladness brim,
But not a child can know
Why that large woman cares for him,
Why she should love him so!
Lord, to thy call of me I bow,
Obey like Abraham:
Thou lov'st me because thou art thou,
And I am what I am!
Doubt whispers, Thou art such a blot
He cannot love poor thee:
If what I am he loveth not,
He loves what I shall be.
Nay, that which can be drawn and wooed,
And turned away from ill,
Is what his father made for good:
He loves me, I say still!
THE GIVER.
To give a thing and take again
Is counted meanness among men;
To take away what once is given
Cannot then be the way of heaven!
But human hearts are crumbly stuff,
And never, never love enough,
Therefore God takes and, with a smile,
Puts our best things away a while.