The Prophet’s Call

When the old pro­phet­ic man­tle

Had up­on Eli­sha fell

As he la­bored in the field be­hind the plow;

And he felt that to the na­tions

He the truth of God must tell

He ap­peared to shrink the cross as men do now.

Power to heal the le­per

pow­er to raise the dead

Power to fill the emp­ty pots with oil;

Is wait­ing for the work­er

Who in Je­sus’ steps will tread

And leave his life of ease for one of toil.

He at first would kiss his fa­ther

And his mo­ther bid fare­well

But Eli­jah said that road would lead to death;

And when he saw his shrink­ing

Would send ma­ny souls to hell

He said

No

I’ll fol­low God till lat­est breath.

So he slew and boiled his ox­en

On the splin­ters of his plow

And he made for all his poor­er friends a feast;

Leaving naught but bones and ashes

To be tempt­ed back to now

Every bridge is burned

And God an­oints him priest.

See him now—the swell­ing Jor­dan

In its on­ward course is stayed

And the hard­ened piece of steel is made to swim;

And the spring of bit­ter water

With a cruse of salt is heal­ed

And the wi­dow’s pots with oil filled to the brim.

If you’d have Eli­sha’s pow­er

You must take the way he trod

Sell whate’er thou hast and give it to the poor;

Leaving not your trea­sures in this world

To tempt you back from God

But lay them up on Heav­en’s last­ing shore.