FOURTH
SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.
Nevertheless, I tell you the truth: it is expedient for
you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto
you: but if I depart, I will send him unto you. St.
John xvi. 7.
MY Saviour, can it be
That I should gain by losing Thee?
The watchful mother tarries nigh
Though sleep have closÕd her infantÕs eye,
For should he wake, and find her gone,
She knows she could not bear his moan.
But I am weaker than a child,
And Thou art more than mother dear;
Without Thee Heaven were but a wild:
How can I live without Thee here?
"'Tis good for you, that I should go,
"You lingering yet awhile below;ÓŃ
ŌTis thine own gracious promise, Lord!
Thy saints have provÕd the faithful word,
When HeavenÕs bright boundless avenue
Far openÕd on their eager view,
And homeward to thy FatherÕs throne,
Still lessening, brightening on their sight,
Thy shadowy car went soaring on;
They trackÕd Thee up thÕ abyss of light.
Thou bidst rejoice; they dare not mourn,
But to their home in gladness turn,
Their home and GodÕs, that favourÕd place,
Where still he shines on AbrahamÕs race,
In prayers and blessings there to wait
Like suppliants at the monarchÕs gate,
Who bent with bounty rare to aid
The splendours of his crowning day,
Keeps back awhile his largess, made
More welcome for that brief delay.
In doubt they wait, but not unblest;
They doubt not of their MasterÕs rest,
Nor of the gracious will of HeavenŃ
Who gave his Son, sure all has givenŃ
But in ecstatic awe they muse
What course the genial stream may choose,
And far and wide their fancies rove,
And to their height of wonder strain,
What secret miracle of love
Should make their SaviourÕs going gain.
The days of hope and prayer are past,
The day of comfort dawns at last,
The everlasting gates again
Roll back, and lo! a royal trainŃ
From the far depth of light once more
The floods of glory earth-ward pour:
They part like shower-drops in mid air,
But neÕer so soft fell noon-tide shower,
Nor evening rain-bow gleamÕd so fair
To weary swains in parched bower.
Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame
Through cloud and breeze unwavering came,
And darted to its place of rest
On some meek brow of Jesus blest.
Nor fades it yet, that living gleam,
And still those lambent lightnings stream
WhereÕer the Lord is, there are they;
In every heart that gives them room,
They light His altar every day,
Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.
Soft as the plumes of JesusÕ Dove
They nurse the soul to heavenly love:
The struggling spark of good within,
Just smotherÕd in the strife of sin,
They quicken to a timely glow,
The pure flame spreading high and low.
Said I, that prayer and hope were oÕer?
Nay, blessed Spirit! but by Thee
The ChurchÕs prayer finds wings to soar,
The ChurchÕs hope finds eyes to see
.
Then, fainting soul, arise and sing;
Mount, but be sober on the wing;
Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer,
Be sober, for thou art not there;
Till death the weary spirit free,
Thy God hath said, ŌTis good for thee
To walk by faith and not by sight:
Take it on trust a little while;
Some shalt thou read the mystery right
In the full sunshine of His smile.
Or if thou yet more knowledge crave,
Ask thine own heart, that willing slave
To all that works thee woe or harm?
Shouldst thou not need some mighty charm
To win thee to thy SaviourÕs side,
Though he had deignÕd with thee to bide?
The Spirit must stir the darkling deep,
The Dove must settle on the Cross,
Else we should all sin on or sleep
With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.