Songs for Strangers and Pilgrims

“Her Seed; It shall bruise thy head.”

Astonished Heaven looked on when man was made, When fallen man reproved seemed half forgiven; Surely that oracle of hope first said, Astonished Heaven.

Even so while one by one lost souls are shriven, A mighty multitude of quickened dead; Christ’s love outnumbering ten times sevenfold seven.

Even so while man still tosses high his head, While still the All-Holy Spirit’s strife is striven;— Till one last trump shake earth, and undismayed Astonished Heaven.

“Judge nothing before the time.”

Love understands the mystery, whereof We can but spell a surface history: Love knows, remembers: let us trust in Love: Love understands the mystery.

Love weighs the event, the long pre-history, Measures the depth beneath, the height above, The mystery, with the ante-mystery.

To love and to be grieved befits a dove Silently telling her bead-history: Trust all to Love, be patient and approve: Love understands the mystery.

How great is little man! Sun, moon, and stars respond to him, Shine or grow dim Harmonious with his span.

How little is great man! More changeable than changeful moon, Nor half in tune With Heaven’s harmonious plan.

Ah, rich man! ah, poor man! Make ready for the testing day When wastes away What bears not fire or fan.

Thou heir of all things, man, Pursue the saints by heavenward track: They looked not back; Run thou, as erst they ran.

Little and great is man: Great if he will, or if he will A pigmy still; For what he will he can.

Man’s life is but a working day Whose tasks are set aright: A time to work, a time to pray, And then a quiet night. And then, please God, a quiet night Where palms are green and robes are white; A long-drawn breath, a balm for sorrow, And all things lovely on the morrow.

If not with hope of life, Begin with fear of death: Strive the tremendous life-long strife Breath after breath.

Bleed on beneath the rod; Weep on until thou see; Turn fear and hope to love of God Who loveth thee.

Turn all to love, poor soul; Be love thy watch and ward; Be love thy starting-point, thy goal, And thy reward.

“The day is at hand.”

Watch yet a while, Weep till that day shall dawn when thou shalt smile: Watch till the day When all save only Love shall pass away.

Then Love rejoicing shall forget to weep, Shall hope or fear no more, or watch or sleep, But only love and stint not, deep beyond deep. Now we sow love in tears, but then shall reap. Have patience as True Love’s own flock of sheep. Have patience with His Love Who served for us, Who reigns for us above.

“Endure bareness.”

A cold wind stirs the blackthorn To burgeon and to blow, Besprinkling half-green hedges With flakes and sprays of snow.

Thro’ coldness and thro’ keenness, Dear hearts, take comfort so: Somewhere or other doubtless These make the blackthorn blow.

“Whither the Tribes go up, even the Tribes of the Lord.”

Light is our sorrow for it ends to-morrow, Light is our death which cannot hold us fast; So brief a sorrow can be scarcely sorrow, Or death be death so quickly past.

One night, no more, of pain that turns to pleasure, One night, no more, of weeping weeping sore; And then the heaped-up measure beyond measure, In quietness for evermore.

Our face is set like flint against our trouble, Yet many things there are which comfort us; This bubble is a rainbow-coloured bubble, This bubble-life tumultuous.

Our sails are set to cross the tossing river, Our face is set to reach Jerusalem; We toil awhile, but then we rest for ever, Sing with all Saints and rest with them.

Where never tempest heaveth, Nor sorrow grieveth, Nor death bereaveth, Nor hope deceiveth, Sleep.

Where never shame bewaileth, Nor serpent traileth, Nor death prevaileth, Nor harvest faileth, Reap.

Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould, Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unrolled, See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold, “The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold.”

Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was tolled: Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold.

“What is that to thee? follow thou me.”

Lie still, my restive heart, lie still: God’s Word to thee saith, “Wait and bear.” The good which He appoints is good, The good which He denies were ill: Yea, subtle comfort is thy care, Thy hurt a help not understood.

“Friend, go up higher,” to one: to one, “Friend, enter thou My joy,” He saith: To one, “Be faithful unto death.” For some a wilderness doth flower, Or day’s work in one hour is done:— “But thou, could’st thou not watch one hour?”

Lord, I had chosen another lot, But then I had not chosen well; Thy choice and only Thine is good: No different lot, search heaven or hell, Had blessed me fully understood; None other, which Thou orderest not.