66

134 THE LOVE OF CHRIST WHICH PASSETH KNOWLEDGE."

I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced :

Men only marked upon My shoulders borne The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced, Or wagged their heads in scorn.

Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name
Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes:

I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame ;

I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.

A thief upon My right hand and My left;
Six hours alone, athirst, in misery :

At length in death one smote My heart and cleft
A hiding-place for thee.

Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down

More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep : So did I win a kingdom,-share My crown;

A harvest, come and reap.

"A BRUISED REED SHALL HE NOT BREAK."

I WILL accept thy will to do and be,

Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,

Thy will at least to love, that burns within

And thirsteth after Me:

So will I render fruitful, blessing still,

The germs and small beginnings in thy heart,

Because thy will cleaves to the better part.—
Alas, I cannot will.

Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receive
The inner unseen longings of the soul,

I guide them turning towards Me; I control

And charm hearts till they grieve:

136

A BRUISED REED SHALL HE NOT BREAK."

If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,

Though thou but wish indeed to choose My love;
For I have power in earth and heaven above.—
I cannot wish, alas!

What, neither choose nor wish to choose? and yet I still must strive to win thee and constrain :

For thee I hung upon the cross in pain,

How then can I forget?

If thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate,

Nor choose, nor wish,—resign thyself, be still
Till I infuse love, hatred, longing, will.-

I do not deprecate.

A BETTER RESURRECTION.

I HAVE no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:
O Jesus, quicken me.

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk ;

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk ;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see :

Yet rise it shall-the sap of Spring ; O Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold ; Cast in the fire the perished thing,

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him my King:

O Jesus, drink of me.