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THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY
When Jesus heard it, He marvelled, and said to them that followed, Verily I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel. St. Matthew viii. 10.
I mark’d a rainbow in the north, What time the wild autumnal sun From his dark veil at noon look’d forth, As glorying in his course half done, Flinging soft radiance far and wide Over the dusky heaven and bleak hill-side. |
It was a gleam to Memory dear, And as I walk and muse apart, When all seems faithless round and drear, I would revive it in my heart, And watch how light can find its way To regions farthest from the fount of day. |
Light flashes in the gloomiest sky, And Music in the dullest plain, For there the lark is soaring high Over her flat and leafless reign, And chanting in so blithe a tone, It shames the weary heart to feel itself alone. |
Brighter than rainbow in the north, More cheery than the matin lark, Is the soft gleam of Christian worth, Which on some holy house we mark; Dear to the pastor’s aching heart To think, where’er he looks, such gleam may have a part; |
May dwell, unseen by all but Heaven, Like diamond blazing in the mine; For ever, where such grace is given, It fears in open day to shine,2222 Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest enter under my roof. St. Luke vii. 6. Lest the deep stain it owns within Break out, and Faith be sham’d by the believer’s sin. |
In silence and afar they wait, To find a prayer their Lord may hear: Voice of the poor and desolate, You best may bring it to His ear; Your grateful intercessions rise With more than royal pomp, and pierce the skies. |
Happy the soul whose precious cause You in the Sovereign Presence plead — “This is the lover of Thy laws,2323He loveth our nation. St. Luke vii. 5. The friend of Thine in fear and need,” — For to the poor Thy mercy lends That solemn style, “Thy nation and Thy friends.” |
He too is blest whose outward eye The graceful lines of art may trace, While his free spirit, soaring high, Discerns the glorious from the base; Till out of dust his magic raise2424He hath built us a synagogue. St. Luke vii. 5. A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise, |
Where far away and high above, In maze on maze the tranced sight Strays, mindful of that heavenly love Which knows no end in depth or height, While the strong breath of Music seems To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams. |
What though in poor and humble guise Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born? Yet from Thy glory in the skies Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn. For Love delights to bring her best, And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest. |
Love on the Saviour’s dying head Her spikenard drops unblam’d may pour, May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead In spices from the golden shore;2525St. John xii. 7; xix. 30, Risen, may embalm His sacred name With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame. |
Worthless and lost our offerings seem, Drops in the ocean of His praise; But Mercy with her genial beam Is ripening them to pearly blaze, To sparkle in His crown above, Who welcomes here a child’s as there an angel’s love. |
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