Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/211

Rh "Lord is it I?" But 'mid the mournful homes Where pallid fear and agony chastise Each wonted joy,—say, are there none who read In all earth's change the counsels of the skies? None, who close wrapped in panoply divine, Show their faith's value in this hour of need? Up, ye who follow with unshrinking step Him who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp, And do his holy will. Amid the haunts Of poverty and pain, with angel-step Send forth your bounty. On the cherished field Where God hath given you nurture, fix the eye, As one who soon may leave it. Lurks there aught Of tare or bramble, in your hallowed bower? Amid the vineyard of your dearest hopes, Lurks there no root of bitterness?—no seed Of truth unsown, which you would fain have watched Unto the harvest? Are there olive-plants Around your table, and do baleful weeds Corrupt their root, or with their blossoms twine? Go to your work with diligence, as one Whose time is short. Strike to the secret heart A searching glance,—and if aught linger there, Though shrouded cunningly,—one evil germ,— Be firm in extirpation, and invoke The aid of that pure spirit, who doth deign To dwell in fleshly temples and prepare Equal for life or death, the trusting soul.