“Lord
in Thy field I work all day
I read
I teach
I warn
I pray
And yet these willful wandering sheep
Within Thy fold I cannot keep.
I journey
yet no step is won—
Alas! the weary course I run!
Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams
All powerless and benighted seems.
What? wearied out with half a life?
Scared with this smooth unbloody strife?
Think where thy coward hopes had flown
Had Heav’n 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 washed and blest:
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 of home:
All but Himself to heal and save
Till ripened for the cross and grave
He to His Father gently yield
The breath that our redemption sealed:
Then to unearthly life arise
Yet not at once to seek the skies
But glide away from saint to saint
Lest on our lonely way we faint;
And through the cloud by glimpses show
How bright
in Heav’n
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 saved
and Thou adored;
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 robèd souls
Whom in her list she now enrolls
And gird yet from your high emprise
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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