So the shepherd has left his sheep lone on the mountain,
    The woodman his axe buried fast in the pine,
  The maiden her pitcher half-filled at the fountain,
    The housewife her loom and the fisher his line.

  With their babes on their bosoms, their sick on their shoulders,
    Toilsomely thronging by footpath and ford,
  Now resting their burthens among the rude boulders,
    Still they come climbing in search of the Lord.

  Until on the Mount, with the morn they have found Him—­
    Christ, the long sought—­they have found Him at length,
  With their sick and their stricken, in faith they flock round Him,
    As sighing He looks up to Heaven for strength.

  He has touched the deaf ears and the blind eyes anointed—­
    And straightway they hear Him and straightway they see;
  Laid hands on the lame and they leap, supple-jointed,
    The devils denounced and affrighted they flee.

  Yea? for their faith, from each life-long affliction,
    Yea, for their faith from their sins they are freed,
  And therefore have earned His divine benediction—­

* * * * *

    Stretch forth Thy hand, for as sore is our need.

  Lord! we are deaf, we are dumb, lost in blindness,
    Lepers and lame and by demons possessed! 
  Lord, we are dead! of Thine infinite kindness
    Restore us, redeem! bear us home on Thy breast.

THE SOWER

  A Sower went forth to sow,
    But His seed on the wayside showered;
  A bird-flock out of the air flashed low
    And the goodly grain devoured.

  A Sower went forth to sow,
    O’er hid rocks plying his toil;
  The seed leaped up at the warm sun’s glow,
    But withered for lack of soil.

  A Sower went forth to sow,
    And his seed took steadfast root;
  But flaming poppies and thorns in row
    Sprang up and strangled the fruit.

  A Sower went forth to sow,
    And at last his joy he found;
  For his good seed’s generous overflow
    Sank deep into gracious ground.

  Lord, when we look back on our lives,
    With penitent sighs and tears,
  Our evil that with Thee strives and strives
    In Thy parable’s truth appears.

  As the wayside hard were our hearts,
    Where Thy good seed lightly lay,
  For the Devil’s flock, as it downward darts,
    To bruise and to bear away.

  Thy winged words falling nigher
    Sprang up in our souls with haste,
  But they could not endure temptation’s fire
    And withered and went to waste.

  Within us Thy word once more
    Thou sowest, but—­sore beset
  With worldly weeds—­for Thy threshing floor
    Shall it ever ripen yet?

  Yea, Lord, it shall if Thou please,
    In passionate, patient prayer,
  To draw the nation upon its knees
    And fill it with Heavenly care.