A thief upon My right hand and My left;
Six hours alone, athirst, in misery:
At length in death one smote My heart and cleft
A hiding-place for thee.
Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down
More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and
sleep:
So did I win a kingdom,—share my crown;
A harvest,—come
and reap.
‘A bruised reed shall he
not break’
I will accept thy will to do and be,
Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,
Thy will at least to love, that burns
within
And thirsteth after Me:
So will I render fruitful, blessing still,
The germs and small beginnings in thy
heart,
Because thy will cleaves to the better
part.—
Alas, I cannot will.
Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receive
The inner unseen longings of the soul,
10
I guide them turning towards Me; I control
And charm hearts till they
grieve:
If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,
Though thou but wish indeed to choose
My love;
For I have power in earth and heaven above.—
I cannot wish, alas!
What, neither choose nor wish to choose? and yet
I still must strive to win thee and constrain:
For thee I hung upon the cross in pain,
How then can I forget?
20
If thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate,
Nor choose, nor wish,—resign
thyself, be still
Till I infuse love, hatred, longing, will.—
I do not deprecate.
I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is in the falling leaf:
O Jesus, quicken me.
My life is like a faded leaf,
My harvest dwindled to a husk;
10
Truly my life is void and brief
And tedious in the barren dusk;
My life is like a frozen thing,
No bud nor greenness can I see:
Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring;
O Jesus, rise in me.
My life is like a broken bowl,
A broken bowl that cannot hold
One drop of water for my soul
Or cordial in the searching cold
20
Cast in the fire the perished thing,
Melt and remould it, till it be
A royal cup for Him my King:
O Jesus, drink of me.
This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year
And still their flame is strong.
‘Watchman, what of the night?’ we cry,
Heart-sick with hope deferred:
‘No speaking signs are in the sky,’
Is still the watchman’s word.
