Soar with the birds, and flutter with the leaf; Dance with the seeded grass in fringy play; Sail with the cloud, wave with the dreaming pine, And float with Nature all the livelong day.
Call not such hours an idle waste of time,-- Land that lies fallow gains a quiet power; It treasures, from the brooding of God's wings, Strength to unfold the future tree and flower.
And when the summer's glorious show is past, Its miracles no longer charm thy sight, The treasured riches of those thoughtful hours Shall make thy wintry musings warm and bright.
"He hath made me to dwell in darkness as those that have been long dead."
ALL dark!--no light, no ray! Sun, moon, and stars, all gone! Dimness of anguish!--utter void!-- Crushed, and alone!
One waste of weary pain, One dull, unmeaning ache, A heart too weary even to throb, Too bruised to break.
No longer anxious thoughts, No longer hopes and fears, No strife, no effort, no desire, No tears.
Daylight and leaves and flowers, Summer and song of bird!-- All vanished!--dreams forever gone, Unseen, unheard!
Love, beauty, youth,--all gone! The high, heroic vow, The buoyant hope, the fond desire,-- All ashes now!
The words they speak to me Far off and distant seem, As voices we have known and loved Speak in a dream.
They bid me to submit; I do,--I cannot strive; I do not question,--I endure, Endure and live.
I do not struggle more, Nor pray, for prayer is vain; I but lie still the weary hour, And bear my pain.
A guiding God, a Friend, A Father's gracious cheer, Once seemed my own; but now even faith Lies buried here.
This darkened, deathly life Is all remains of me, And but one conscious wish,-- To cease to be!
"There was darkness over all the land from the sixth hour unto the ninth hour.
"And Jesus cried and said, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul; I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord When breaks the master chord of some great harp; My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord.
O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns! O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there! Wert _thou_ forsaken in thy deadly strife? Then canst thou pity me in my despair.
Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest; Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds, As a dear mother lays her babe to rest.