THE AFFLICTOR.
Was it the hand of God lifted the rod?
Oh how hard does it seem, wonderful God!
Mighty and marvellous, we but behold
In wonder and awe Thy mysteries told—
The work of Thy hand
Throughout all the land,
Bearing on mankind—
Man frail and mortal.
Dark and ambiguous, mighty and grand,
All Thy works are;
Thee, whom all the angels adore,
Falling in prostration before
Thy radiant throne.
In beauty of state
The archangels wait,
Seeking Thy glory,
Great God, alone.
How shall we bend,
Seeking to lend
Humble adorance, worship before Thee?
How shall we yield us meekly submissive
Unto Thy will?
So prone is the heart oft to rebel,
Murmuring still;
From morning until night,
And
From darkness until light,
It doth rebel.
Send,
O Lord! the spirit of meekness,
And dispel
All turbulent thought
And vainglory sought.
We are but nought
In the presence of Thy greatness.
THE COMFORTER.
O Lord! reach us
Thy hand, rich in comfort and love;
Our grief soothe, and raise us above
The tide of woe in which we move;
In this loss console us; sweet may
Our mourning be; oh! let us say,
“God hath removéd her; He took her away.”
And, Lord, teach us
In all things Thy wisdom to see.
Thou wouldst not have us alway be
Wandering this vale of misery.
HER SUFFERING.
Great had her sorrow been,
Anguish and woe,
Pouring their full fury,
Bearing her low.
But, in agony sore,
The affliction she bore
Meek as a child.
Though every breath was in agony seethed,
Yet not a murmur her parchéd lips breathed,
So passively mild.
All the earth’s gladness
Is but as sadness
Unto her now.
All its gay pleasures
And its great treasures
Are but as measures
Empty and vain.
Peace, peace in her soul
Has fullest control.
HER DEATH.
Then the deliverer came,
And, in the glorious name
Of the great God, took her away
High unto the regions of day.
And, ere she yielded her breath
Unto the angel of death,
These were the last words she spoke—
How sweetly from her lips they broke!—
“Saviour, receive my spirit,”
Breathed in all the merit
Of her Redeemer’s love.
He stood waiting above,
Watching the angels move
Unto His throne.
And thus the angel came and went;
But they who by the pillow bent
Were not the power of vision lent
To see the holy being sent
Among them then,
And moving when
He passed away,
Felt not the soft zephyrs lay
Room for his wing,