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TUESDAY IN WHITSUN-WEEK
When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them. St. John x. 4.
(Addressed to Candidates for Ordination.)
“Lord, in Thy field I work all day, I read, I teach, I warn, I pray, And yet these wilful wandering sheep Within Thy fold I cannot keep. |
“I journey, yet no step is won — Alas! the weary course I run! Like sailors shipwreck’d in their dreams, All powerless and benighted seems.” |
What? wearied out with half a life? Scar’d with this smooth unbloody strife? Think where thy coward hopes had flown Had Heaven held out the martyr’s crown. |
How couldst thou hang upon the cross, To whom a weary hour is loss? Or how the thorns and scourging brook Who shrinkest from a scornful look? |
Yet ere thy craven spirit faints, Hear thine own King, the King of Saints; Though thou wert toiling in the grave, ’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save. |
He is th’ eternal mirror bright, Where Angels view the FATHER’S light, And yet in Him the simplest swain May read his homely lesson plain. |
Early to quit His home on earth, And claim His high celestial birth, Alone with His true Father found Within the temple’s solemn round: — |
Yet in meek duty to abide For many a year at Mary’s side, Nor heed, though restless spirits ask, “What, hath the Christ forgot His task?” |
Conscious of Deity within, To bow before an heir of sin, With folded arms on humble breast, By His own servant wash’d and blest: — |
Then full of Heaven, the mystic Dove Hovering His gracious brow above, To shun the voice and eye of praise, And in the wild His trophies raise: — |
With hymns of angels in His ears, Back to His task of woe and tears, Unmurmuring through the world to roam With not a wish or thought at home: — |
All but Himself to heal and save, Till ripen’d for the cross and grave, He to His Father gently yield The breath that our redemption seal’d: — |
Then to unearthly life arise, Yet not at once to seek the skies, But glide awhile from saint to saint, Lest on our lonely way we faint; |
And through the cloud by glimpses show How bright, in Heaven, the marks will glow Of the true cross, imprinted deep Both on the Shepherd and the sheep: — |
When out of sight, in heart and prayer, Thy chosen people still to bear, And from behind Thy glorious veil, Shed light that cannot change or fail: — |
This is Thy pastoral course, O Lord, Till we be sav’d, and Thou ador’d; — Thy course and ours — but who are they Who follow on the narrow way? |
And yet of Thee from year to year The Church’s solemn chant we hear, As from Thy cradle to Thy throne She swells her high heart-cheering tone. |
Listen, ye pure white-robed souls, Whom in her list she now enrolls, And gird ye for your high emprize By these her thrilling minstrelsies. |
And wheresoe’er in earth’s wide field, Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield, Be this your song, your joy and pride — “Our Champion went before and died.” |
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