Chapter 7

Marvel not, my brethren, if the world hate you. We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren. 1 _St. John_ iii. 13, 14.

THE clouds that wrap the setting sun When Autumn’s softest gleams are ending, Where all bright hues together run In sweet confusion blending:— Why, as we watch their floating wreath Seem they the breath of life to breathe? To Fancy’s eye their motions prove They mantle round the Sun for love.

When up some woodland dale we catch The many-twinkling smile of ocean, Or with pleased ear bewildered watch His chime of restless motion; Still as the surging waves retire They seem to gasp with strong desire, Such signs of love old Ocean gives, We cannot choose but think he lives.

Wouldst thou the life of souls discern? Nor human wisdom nor divine Helps thee by aught beside to learn; Love is life’s only sign. The spring of the regenerate heart, The pulse, the glow of every part, Is the true love of Christ our Lord, As man embraced, as God adored.

But he, whose heart will bound to mark The full bright burst of summer morn, Loves too each little dewy spark, By leaf or flow’ret worn: Cheap forms, and common hues, ’tis true, Through the bright shower-drop’ meet his view; The colouring may be of this earth; The lustre comes of heavenly birth.

E’en so, who loves the Lord aright, No soul of man can worthless find; All will be precious in his sight, Since Christ on all hath shined: But chiefly Christian souls; for they, Though worn and soiled with sinful clay, Are yet, to eyes that see them true, All glistening with baptismal dew.

Then marvel not, if such as bask In purest light of innocence, Hope against mope, in love’s dear task, Spite of all dark offence. If they who hate the trespass most, Yet, when all other love is lost, Love the poor sinner, marvel not; Christ’s mark outwears the rankest blot.

No distance breaks this tie of blood; Brothers are brothers evermore; Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood, That magic may o’erpower; Oft, ere the common source be known, The kindred drops will claim their own, And throbbing pulses silently Move heart towards heart by sympathy.

So it is with true Christian hearts; Their mutual share in Jesus’ blood An everlasting bond imparts Of holiest brotherhood: Oh! might we all our lineage prove, Give and forgive, do good and love, By soft endearments in kind strife Lightening the load of daily life.

There is much need; for not as yet Are we in shelter or repose, The holy house is still beset With leaguer of stern foes; Wild thoughts within, bad men without, All evil spirits round about, Are banded in unblest device, To spoil Love’s earthly paradise.

Then draw we nearer day by day, Each to his brethren, all to God; Let the world take us as she may, We must not change our road; Not wondering, though in grief, to find The martyr’s foe still keep her mind; But fixed to hold Love’s banner fast, And by submission win at last.

Third Sunday after Trinity.

There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. _St. Luke_ xv. 10.

O HATEFUL spell of Sin! when friends are nigh, To make stern Memory tell her tale unsought, And raise accusing shades of hours gone by, To come between us and all kindly thought!

Chilled at her touch, the self-reproaching soul Flies from the heart and home she dearest loves, To where lone mountains tower, or billows roll, Or to your endless depth, ye solemn groves.

In vain: the averted cheek in loneliest dell Is conscious of a gaze it cannot bear, The leaves that rustle near us seem to tell Our heart’s sad secret to the silent air.

Nor is the dream untrue; for all around The heavens are watching with their thousand eyes, We cannot pass our guardian angel’s bound, Resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs.

He in the mazes of the budding wood Is near, and mourns to see our thankless glance Dwell coldly, where the fresh green earth is strewed With the first flowers that lead the vernal dance.

In wasteful bounty showered, they smile unseen, Unseen by man—but what if purer sprights By moonlight o’er their dewy bosoms lean To adore the Father of all gentle lights?

If such there be, O grief and shame to think That sight of thee should overcloud their joy, A new-born soul, just waiting on the brink Of endless life, yet wrapt in earth’s annoy!

O turn, and be thou turned! the selfish tear, In bitter thoughts of low-born care begun, Let it flow on, but flow refined and clear, The turbid waters brightening as they run.

Let it flow on, till all thine earthly heart In penitential drops have ebbed away, Then fearless turn where Heaven hath set thy part, Nor shudder at the Eye that saw thee stray.

O lost and found! all gentle souls below Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove Such joy o’er thee, as raptured seraphs know, Who learn their lesson at the Throne of Love.

Fourth Sunday after Trinity.

For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by the reason of Him who hath subjected the same in hope, because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. _Romans_ viii 19–22.

IT was not then a poet’s dream, An idle vaunt of song, Such as beneath the moon’s soft gleam On vacant fancies throng;

Which bids us see in heaven and earth, In all fair things around, Strong yearnings for a blest new birth With sinless glories crowned;

Which bids us hear, at each sweet pause From care and want and toil, When dewy eve her curtain draws Over the day’s turmoil,

In the low chant of wakeful birds, In the deep weltering flood, In whispering leaves, these solemn words— “God made us all for good.”

All true, all faultless, all in tune Creation’s wondrous choir, Opened in mystic unison To last till time expire.

And still it lasts; by day and night, With one consenting voice, All hymn Thy glory, Lord, aright, All worship and rejoice.

Man only mars the sweet accord O’erpowering with “harsh din” The music of Thy works and word, Ill matched with grief and sin.

Sin is with man at morning break, And through the livelong day Deafens the ear that fain would wake To Nature’s simple lay.

But when eve’s silent footfall steals Along the eastern sky, And one by one to earth reveals Those purer fires on high,

When one by one each human sound Dies on the awful ear, Then Nature’s voice no more is drowned, She speaks, and we must hear.

Then pours she on the Christian heart That warning still and deep, At which high spirits of old would start E’en from their Pagan sleep.

Just guessing, through their murky blind Few, faint, and baffling sight, Streaks of a brighter heaven behind, A cloudless depth of light.

Such thoughts, the wreck of Paradise, Through many a dreary age, Upbore whate’er of good and wise Yet lived in bard or sage:

They marked what agonizing throes Shook the great mother’s womb: But Reason’s spells might not disclose The gracious birth to come:

Nor could the enchantress Hope forecast God’s secret love and power; The travail pangs of Earth must last Till her appointed hour.

The hour that saw from opening heaven Redeeming glory stream, Beyond the summer hues of even, Beyond the mid-day beam.

Thenceforth, to eyes of high desire, The meanest thing below, As with a seraph’s robe of fire Invested, burn and glow:

The rod of Heaven has touched them all, The word from Heaven is spoken: “Rise, shine, and sing, thou captive thrall; Are not thy fetters broken?

“The God Who hallowed thee and blest, Pronouncing thee all good— Hath He not all thy wrongs redrest, And all thy bliss renewed?

“Why mourn’st thou still as one bereft, Now that th’ eternal Son His blessèd home in Heaven hath left To make thee all His own?”

Thou mourn’st because sin lingers still In Christ’s new heaven and earth; Because our rebel works and will Stain our immortal birth:

Because, as Love and Prayer grow cold, The Saviour hides His face, And worldlings blot the temple’s gold With uses vile and base.

Hence all thy groans and travail pains, Hence, till thy God return, In Wisdom’s ear thy blithest strains, Oh Nature, seem to mourn.

Fifth Sunday after Trinity.

And Simon answering said unto Him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless at Thy word I will let down the net. And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net brake. _St. Luke_ v. 5, 6.

“The livelong night we’ve toiled in vain, But at Thy gracious word I will let down the net again:— Do Thou Thy will, O Lord!”

So spake the weary fisher, spent With bootless darkling toil, Yet on his Master’s bidding bent For love and not for spoil.

So day by day and week by week, In sad and weary thought, They muse, whom God hath set to seek The souls His Christ hath bought.

For not upon a tranquil lake Our pleasant task we ply, Where all along our glistening wake The softest moonbeams lie;

Where rippling wave and dashing oar Our midnight chant attend, Or whispering palm-leaves from the shore With midnight silence blend.

Sweet thoughts of peace, ye may not last: Too soon some ruder sound Calls us from where ye soar so fast Back to our earthly round.

For wildest storms our ocean sweep:— No anchor but the Cross Might hold: and oft the thankless deep Turns all our toil to loss.

Full many a dreary anxious hour We watch our nets alone In drenching spray, and driving shower, And hear the night-bird’s moan:

At morn we look, and nought is there; Sad dawn of cheerless day! Who then from pining and despair The sickening heart can stay?

There is a stay—and we are strong; Our Master is at hand, To cheer our solitary song, And guide us to the strand.

In His own time; but yet a while Our bark at sea must ride; Cast after cast, by force or guile All waters must be tried:

By blameless guile or gentle force, As when He deigned to teach (The lode-star of our Christian course) Upon this sacred beach.

Should e’er thy wonder-working grace Triumph by our weak arm, Let not our sinful fancy trace Aught human in the charm:

To our own nets ne’er bow we down, Lest on the eternal shore The angels, while oar draught they own, Reject us evermore:

Or, if for our unworthiness Toil, prayer, and watching fail, In disappointment Thou canst bless, So love at heart prevail.

Sixth Sunday after Trinity.

David said unto Nathan, I have sinned against the Lord. And Nathan said unto David, The Lord also hath put away thy sin; thou shalt not die. 2 _Samuel_ xii. 13.

WHEN bitter thoughts, of conscience born, With sinners wake at morn, When from our restless couch we start, With fevered lips and withered heart, Where is the spell to charm those mists away, And make new morning in that darksome day? One draught of spring’s delicious air, One steadfast thought, that GOD is there.

These are Thy wonders, hourly wrought, Thou Lord of time and thought, Lifting and lowering souls at will, Crowding a world of good or ill Into a moment’s vision; e’en as light Mounts o’er a cloudy ridge, and all is bright, From west to east one thrilling ray Turning a wintry world to May.

Would’st thou the pangs of guilt assuage? Lo! here an open page, Where heavenly mercy shines as free Written in balm, sad heart, for thee. Never so fast, in silent April shower, Flushed into green the dry and leafless bower, As Israel’s crownèd mourner felt The dull hard stone within him melt.

The absolver saw the mighty grief, And hastened with relief;— “The Lord forgives; thou shalt not die:” ’Twas gently spoke, yet heard on high, And all the band of angels, used to sing In heaven, accordant to his raptured string, Who many a month had turned away With veilèd eyes, nor owned his lay,

Now spread their wings, and throng around To the glad mournful sound, And welcome, with bright open face, The broken heart to love’s embrace. The rock is smitten, and to future years Springs ever fresh the tide of holy tears And holy music, whispering peace Till time and sin together cease.

There drink: and when ye are at rest, With that free Spirit blest, Who to the contrite can dispense, The princely heart of innocence, If ever, floating from faint earthly lyre, Was wafted to your soul one high desire, By all the trembling hope ye feel, Think on the minstrel as ye kneel:

Think on the shame, that dreadful hour When tears shall have no power, Should his own lay th’ accuser prove, Cold while he kindled others’ love: And let your prayer for charity arise, That his own heart may hear his melodies, And a true voice to him may cry, “Thy GOD forgives—thou shalt not die.”

Seventh Sunday after Trinity.

From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness? _St. Mark_ viii. 4.

GO not away, thou weary soul: Heaven has in store a precious dole Here on Bethsaida’s cold and darksome height, Where over rocks and sands arise Proud Sirion in the northern skies, And Tabor’s lonely peak, ’twixt thee and noonday light.

And far below, Gennesaret’s main Spreads many a mile of liquid plain, (Though all seem gathered in one eager bound,) Then narrowing cleaves you palmy lea, Towards that deep sulphureous sea, Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drowned.

Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart, Thou need’st not in thy gloom depart, Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home: Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed By the kind Saviour at thy side; For healing and for balm e’en now thine hour is come.

No fiery wing is seen to glide, No cates ambrosial are supplied, But one poor fisher’s rude and scanty store Is all He asks (and more than needs) Who men and angels daily feeds, And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore.

The feast is o’er, the guests are gone, And over all that upland lone The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old— But far unlike the former dreams, The heart’s sweet moonlight softly gleams Upon life’s varied view, so joyless erst and cold.

As mountain travellers in the night, When heaven by fits is dark and bright, Pause listening on the silent heath, and hear Nor trampling hoof nor tinkling bell, Then bolder scale the rugged fell, Conscious the more of One, ne’er seen, yet ever near:

So when the tones of rapture gay On the lorn ear, die quite away, The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven; Seen daily, yet unmarked before, Earth’s common paths are strewn all o’er With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven.

The low sweet tones of Nature’s lyre No more on listless ears expire, Nor vainly smiles along the shady way The primrose in her vernal nest, Nor unlamented sink to rest Sweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay.

There’s not a star the heaven can show, There’s not a cottage-hearth below, But feeds with solace kind the willing soul— Men love us, or they need our love; Freely they own, or heedless prove The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.

Then rouse thee from desponding sleep, Nor by the wayside lingering weep, Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild, Whose love can turn earth’s worst and least Into a conqueror’s royal feast: Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguiled.

Eight Sunday after Trinity.

It is the man of God, who was disobedient unto the word of the Lord. 1 _King_ xiii. 26.

PROPHET of God, arise and take With thee the words of wrath divine, The scourge of Heaven, to shake O’er yon apostate shrine.

Where Angels down the lucid stair Came hovering to our sainted sires Now, in the twilight, glare The heathen’s wizard fires.

Go, with thy voice the altar rend, Scatter the ashes, be the arm, That idols would befriend, Shrunk at thy withering charm.

Then turn thee, for thy time is short, But trace not o’er the former way, Lest idol pleasures court Thy heedless soul astray.

Thou know’st how hard to hurry by, Where on the lonely woodland road Beneath the moonlight sky The festal warblings flowed;

Where maidens to the Queen of Heaven Wove the gay dance round oak or palm, Or breathed their vows at even In hymns as soft as balm.

Or thee, perchance, a darker spell Enthralls: the smooth stones of the flood, By mountain grot or fell, Pollute with infant’s blood;

The giant altar on the rock, The cavern whence the timbrel’s call Affrights the wandering flock:— Thou long’st to search them all.

Trust not the dangerous path again— O forward step and lingering will! O loved and warned in vain! And wilt thou perish still?

Thy message given, thine home in sight, To the forbidden feast return? Yield to the false delight Thy better soul could spurn?

Alas, my brother! round thy tomb In sorrow kneeling, and in fear, We read the Pastor’s doom Who speaks and will not hear.

The grey-haired saint may fail at last, The surest guide a wanderer prove; Death only binds us fast To the bright shore of love.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity.

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 1 _Kings_ xix. 12.

IN troublous days of anguish and rebuke, While sadly round them Israel’s children look, And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord: While underneath each awful arch of green, On every mountain-top, God’s chosen scene, Of pure heart-worship, Baal is adored:

’Tis well, true hearts should for a time retire To holy ground, in quiet to aspire Towards promised regions of serener grace; On Horeb, with Elijah, let us lie, Where all around on mountain, sand, and sky, God’s chariot wheels have left distinctest trace;

There, if in jealousy and strong disdain We to the sinner’s God of sin complain, Untimely seeking here the peace of Heaven— “It is enough. O Lord! now let me die E’en as my fathers did: for what am I That I should stand where they have vainly striven?”—

Perhaps our God may of our conscience ask, “What doest thou here frail wanderer from thy task? Where hast thou left those few sheep in the wild?” Then should we plead our heart’s consuming pain, At sight of ruined altars, prophets slain, And God’s own ark with blood of souls defiled;

He on the rock may bid us stand, and see The outskirts of His march of mystery, His endless warfare with man’s wilful heart; First, His great Power He to the sinner shows Lo! at His angry blast the rocks unclose, And to their base the trembling mountains part

Yet the Lord is not here: ’Tis not by Power He will be known—but darker tempests lower; Still, sullen heavings vex the labouring ground: Perhaps His Presence thro’ all depth and height, Best of all gems that deck His crown of light, The haughty eye may dazzle and confound.

God is not in the earthquake; but behold From Sinai’s caves are bursting, as of old, The flames of His consuming jealous ire. Woe to the sinner should stern Justice prove His chosen attribute;—but He in love Hastes to proclaim, “God is not in the fire.”

The storm is o’er—and hark! a still small voice Steals on the ear, to say, Jehovah’s choice Is ever with the soft, meek, tender soul; By soft, meek, tender ways He loves to draw The sinner, startled by His ways of awe: Here is our Lord, and not where thunders roll.

Back, then, complainer; loath thy life no more, Nor deem thyself upon a desert shore, Because the rocks the nearer prospect close. Yet in fallen Israel are there hearts and eyes That day by day in prayer like thine arise; Thou know’st them not, but their Creator knows.

Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last In joy to find it after many days. The work be thine, the fruit thy children’s part: Choose to believe, not see: sight tempts the heart From sober walking in true Gospel ways.

Tenth Sunday after Trinity.

And when He was come near, He beheld the city, and wept over it. _St. Luke_ xix. 41.

WHY doth my Saviour weep At sight of Sion’s bowers? Shows it not fair from yonder steep, Her gorgeous crown of towers? Mark well His holy pains: ’Tis not in pride or scorn, That Israel’s King with sorrow stains His own triumphal morn.

It is not that His soul Is wandering sadly on, In thought how soon at death’s dark goal Their course will all be run, Who now are shouting round Hosanna to their chief; No thought like this in Him is found, This were a Conquerer’s grief.

Or doth He feel the Cross Already in His heart, The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss? Feel e’en His God depart? No: though He knew full well The grief that then shall be— The grief that angels cannot tell— Our God in agony.

It is not thus He mourns; Such might be martyr’s tears, When his last lingering look he turns On human hopes and fears; But hero ne’er or saint The secret load might know, With which His spirit waxeth faint; His is a Saviour’s woe.

“If thou had’st known, e’en thou, At least in this thy day, The message of thy peace! but now ’Tis passed for aye away: Now foes shall trench thee round, And lay thee even with earth, And dash thy children to the ground, Thy glory and thy mirth.”

And doth the Saviour weep Over His people’s sin, Because we will not let Him keep The souls He died to win? Ye hearts, that love the Lord, If at this, sight ye burn, See that in thought, in deed, in word, Ye hate what made Him mourn.

Eleventh Sunday after Trinity.

Is it a time to receive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, and vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and maidservants? 2 _Kings_ v. 26.

IS this a time to plant and build, Add house to house, and field to field, When round our walls the battle lowers, When mines are hid beneath our towers, And watchful foes are stealing round To search and spoil the holy ground?