Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/73



Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire, Must win their way through blood and fire. The writhings of a wounded heart Are fiercer than a foeman's dart. Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining, In Desolation unrepining, Without a hope on earth to find A mirror in an answering mind, Meek souls there are, who little dream Their daily strife an Angel's theme, Or that the rod they take so calm Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm.

And there are souls that seem to dwell Above this earth—so rich a spell Floats round their steps, where'er they move, From hopes fulfilled and mutual love. Such, if on high their thoughts are set, Nor in the stream the source forget, If prompt to quit the bliss they know, Following the Lamb where'er He go, By purest pleasures unbeguiled To idolise or wife or child; Such wedded souls our God shall own For faultless virgins round His throne.

Thus everywhere we find our suffering God, And where He trod May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary Uplifted high Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light In open fight.

To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart He doth impart The virtue of his midnight agony, When none was nigh, Save God and one good angel, to assuage The tempest's rage.

Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find All to thy mind, Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend, Thee to befriend: So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call, Thy best, thine all.