It was a weary thing to bear the burden
Of that restless and rebellious race. With
Sinai’s thunders almost crashing in their ears,
They made a golden calf, and in the desert
Spread an idol’s feast, and sung the merry songs
They had heard when Mizraim’s songs bowed down before
Their vain and heathen gods; and thus for many years
Did Moses bear the evil manners of his race—
Their angry murmurs, fierce regrets and strange
Forgetfulness of God. Born slaves, they did not love
The freedom of the wild more than their pots of flesh.
And pleasant savory things once gathered
From the gardens of the Nile.
If slavery only laid its weight of chains
Upon the weary, aching limbs, e’en then
It were a curse; but when it frets through nerve
And flesh and eats into the weary soul,
Oh then it is a thing for every human
Heart to loathe, and this was Israel’s fate,
For when the chains were shaken from their limbs
They failed to strike the impress from their souls
While he who’d basked beneath the radiance
Of a throne, ne’er turned regretful eyes upon
The past, nor sighed to grasp again the pleasures
Once resigned; but the saddest trial was
To see the light and joy fade from their faces
When the faithless spies spread through their camp
Their ill report; and when the people wept
In hopeless unbelief and turned their faces
Egyptward, and asked a captain from their bands
To lead them back where they might bind anew
Their broken chains, when God arose and shut
The gates of promise on their lives, and left
Their bones to bleach beneath Arabia’s desert sands
But though they slumbered in the wild, they died
With broader freedom on their lips, and for their
Little ones did God reserve the heritage
So rudely thrust aside.
THE DEATH OF MOSES.—CHAPTER IX.
His work was done; his blessing lay
Like precious ointment on his people’s head,
And God’s great peace was resting on his soul.
His life had been a lengthened sacrifice,
A thing of deep devotion to his race,
Since first he turned his eyes on Egypt’s gild
And glow, and clasped their fortunes in his hand
And held them with a firm and constant grasp.
But now his work was done; his charge was laid
In Joshua’s hand, and men of younger blood
Were destined to possess the land and pass
Through Jordan to the other side. He too
Had hoped to enter there—to tread the soil
Made sacred by the memories of his
Kindred dead, and rest till life’s calm close beneath
The sheltering vines and stately palms of that
Fair land; that hope had colored all his life’s
Young dreams and sent its mellowed flushes o’er
His later years; but God’s decree was otherwise.
And so he bowed his meekened soul in calm
Submission to the word, which bade him climb
To Nebo’s highest peak, and view the pleasant land
From Jordan’s swells unto the calmer ripples
Of the tideless sea, then die with all its
Loveliness in sight.
As he passed from Moab’s grassy vale to climb
The rugged mount, the people stood in mournful groups,
Some, with quivering lips and tearful eyes,
Reaching out unconscious hands, as if to stay
His steps and keep him ever at their side, while
Others gazed with reverent awe upon
The calm and solemn beauty on his aged brow,
The look of loving trust and lofty faith
Still beaming from an eye that neither care
Nor time had dimmed. As he passed upward, tender
Blessings, earnest prayers and sad farewells rose
On each wave of air, then died in one sweet
Murmur of regretful love; and Moses stood
Alone on Nebo’s mount.
Alone! not one
Of all that mighty throng who had trod with him
In triumph through the parted flood was there.
Aaron had died in Hor, with son and brother
By his side; and Miriam too was gone.
But kindred hands had made her grave, and Kadesh
Held her dust. But he was all alone; nor wife
Nor child was there to clasp in death his hand,
And bind around their bleeding hearts the precious
Parting words. And yet he was not all alone,
For God’s great presence flowed around his path
And stayed him in that solemn hour.
He stood upon the highest peak of Nebo,
And saw the Jordan chafing through its gorges,
Its banks made bright by scarlet blooms
And purple blossoms. The placid lakes
And emerald meadows, the snowy crest
Of distant mountains, the ancient rocks
That dripped with honey, the hills all bathed
In light and beauty; the shady groves
And peaceful vistas, the vines opprest
With purple riches, the fig trees fruit-crowned
Green and golden, the pomegranates with crimson
Blushes, the olives with their darker clusters,
Rose before him like a vision, full of beauty
And delight. Gazed he on the lovely landscape
Till it faded from his view, and the wing
Of death’s sweet angel hovered o’er the mountain’s
Crest, and he heard his garments rustle through
The watches of the night.
Then another, fairer, vision
Broke upon his longing gaze; ’twas the land
Of crystal fountains, love and beauty, joy
And light, for the pearly gates flew open,
And his ransomed soul went in. And when morning
O’er the mountain fringed each crag and peak with light,
Cold and lifeless lay the leader. God had touched
His eyes with slumber, giving his beloved sleep.
Oh never on that mountain
Was seen a lovelier sight
Than the troupe of fair young angels
That gathered ’round the dead.
With gentle hands they bore him
That bright and shining train,
From Nebo’s lonely mountain
To sleep in Moab’s vale.
But they sung no mournful dirges
No solemn requiems said,
And the soft wave of their pinions
Made music as they trod.
But no one heard them passing,
None saw their chosen grave;
It was the angels secret
Where Moses should be laid.
And when the grave was finished
They trod with golden sandals
Above the sacred spot,
And the brightest, fairest flowers
Sprang up beneath their tread.
Nor broken turf, nor hillock
Did e’er reveal that grave,
And truthful lips have never said
We know where he is laid.
THE MISSION OF THE FLOWERS.
In a lovely garden, filled with fair and blooming flowers, stood a
beautiful rose tree. It was the centre of attraction, and won the
admiration of every eye; its beauteous flowers were sought to adorn the
bridal wreath and deck the funeral bier. It was a thing of joy and
beauty, and its earth mission was a blessing. Kind hands plucked its
flowers to gladden the chamber of sickness and adorn the prisoner’s
lonely cell. Young girls wore them ’mid their clustering curls, and
grave brows relaxed when they gazed upon their wondrous beauty. Now the
rose was very kind and generous hearted, and, seeing how much joy she
dispensed, wished that every flower could only be a rose, and like
herself have the privilege of giving joy to the children of men; and
while she thus mused, a bright and lovely spirit approached her and
said, “I know thy wishes and will grant thy desires. Thou shalt have
power to change every flower in the garden to thine own likeness. When
the soft winds come wooing thy fairest buds and flowers, thou shalt
breathe gently o’er thy sister plants, and beneath thy influence they
shall change to beautiful roses.” The rose tree bowed her head in silent
gratitude to the gentle being who had granted her this wondrous power.
All night the stars bent over her from their holy homes above, but she
scarcely heeded their vigils. The gentle dews nestled in her arms and
kissed the cheeks of her daughters; but she hardly noticed them;—she was
waiting for the soft airs to awaken and seek her charming abode. At
length the gentle airs greeted her, and she hailed them with a joyous
welcome, and then commenced her work of change. The first object that
met her vision was a tulip superbly arrayed in scarlet and gold. When
she was aware of the intention of her neighbor, her cheeks flamed with
anger, her eyes flashed indignantly, and she haughtily refused to change
her proud robes for the garb the rose tree had prepared for her; but she
could not resist the spell that was upon her, and she passively
permitted the garments of the rose to enfold her yielding limbs. The
verbenas saw the change that had fallen upon the tulip and dreading that
a similar fate awaited them, crept closely to the ground, and, while
tears gathered in their eyes, they felt a change pass through their
sensitive frames, and instead of gentle verbenas they were blushing
roses. She breathed upon the sleepy poppies; a deeper slumber fell upon
their senses, and when they awoke, they too had changed to bright and
beautiful roses. The heliotrope read her fate in the lot of her sisters,
and, bowing her fair head in silent sorrow, gracefully submitted to her
unwelcome destiny. The violets, whose mission was to herald the approach
of spring, were averse to losing their identity. “Surely,” said they,
“we have a mission as well as the rose;” but with heavy hearts they saw
themselves changed like their sister plants. The snow drop drew around
her her robes of virgin white; she would not willingly exchange them for
the most brilliant attire that ever decked a flower’s form; to her they
were the emblems of purity and innocence; but the rose tree breathed
upon her, and with a bitter sob she reluctantly consented to the change.
The dahlias lifted their heads proudly and defiantly; they dreaded the
change, but scorned submission; they loved the fading year, and wished
to spread around his dying couch their brightest, fairest flowers; but
vainly they struggled, the doom was upon them, and they could not
escape. A modest lily that grew near the rose tree shrank instinctively
from her; but it was in vain, and with tearful eyes and trembling limbs
she yielded, while a quiver of agony convulsed her frame. The marygolds
sighed submissively and made no remonstrance. The garden pinks grew
careless, and submitted without a murmur, while other flowers, less
fragrant or less fair, paled with sorrow or reddened with anger; but the
spell of the rose tree was upon them, and every flower was changed by
her power, and that once beautiful garden was overrun with roses; it had
become a perfect wilderness of roses; the garden had changed, but that
variety which had lent it so much beauty was gone, and men grew tired of
roses, for they were everywhere. The smallest violet peeping faintly
from its bed would have been welcome, the humblest primrose would have
been hailed with delight,—even a dandelion would have been a harbinger
of joy; and when the rose saw that the children of men were dissatisfied
with the change she had made, her heart grew sad within her, and she
wished the power had never been given her to change her sister plants to
roses, and tears came into her eyes as she mused, when suddenly a rough
wind shook her drooping form, and she opened her eyes and found that she
had only been dreaming. But an important lesson had been taught; she had
learned to respect the individuality of her sister flowers, and began to
see that they, as well as herself, had their own missions,—some to
gladden the eye with their loveliness and thrill the soul with delight;
some to transmit fragrance to the air; others to breathe a refining
influence upon the world; some had power to lull the aching brow and
soothe the weary heart and brain into forgetfulness; and of those whose
mission she did not understand, she wisely concluded there must be some
object in their creation, and resolved to be true to her own earth
mission, and lay her fairest buds and flowers upon the altars of love
and truth.
THE RAGGED STOCKING.
Do you see this ragged stocking,
Here a rent and there a hole?
Each thread of this little stocking
Is woven around my soul.
Do you wish to hear my story?
Excuse me, the tears will start,
For the sight of this ragged stocking
Stirs the fountains of my heart.
You say that my home is happy;
To me ’tis earth’s fairest place,
But its sunshine, peace and gladness
Back to this stocking I trace.
I was once a wretched drunkard;
Ah! you start and say not so;
But the dreadful depths I’ve sounded,
And I speak of what I know.
I was wild and very reckless
When I stood on manhood’s brink,
And, joining with pleasure-seekers
Learned to revel and drink.
Strong drink is a raging demon,
In his hands are shame and woe;
He mocketh the strength of the mighty
And bringeth the strong man low.
The light of my home was darkened
By the shadow of my sin;
And want and woe unbarr’d the door,
And suffering entered in.
· · · · ·
The streets were full one Christmas eve,
And alive with girls and boys,
Merrily looking through window-panes
At bright and beautiful toys.
And throngs of parents came to buy
The gifts that children prize,
And homeward trudged with happy hearts,
The love-light in their eyes.
I thought of my little Charley
At home in his lowly bed,
With the shadows around his life,
And in shame I bowed my head.
I entered my home a sober man,
My heart by remorse was wrung,
And there in the chimney corner,
This little stocking was hung.
Faded and worn as you see it;
To me ’tis a precious thing,
And I never gaze upon it
But unbidden tears will spring.
I began to search my pockets,
But scarcely a dime was there;
But scanty as was the pittance,
This stocking received its share.
For a longing seized upon me
To gladden the heart of my boy,
And I bought him some cakes and candy,
And added a simple toy.
Then I knelt by this little stocking
And sobbed out an earnest prayer,
And arose with strength to wrestle
And break from the tempter’s snare.
And this faded, worn-out stocking,
So pitiful once to see,
Became the wedge that broke my chain,
And a blessing brought to me.
Do you marvel then I prize it?
When each darn and seam and hole
Is linked with my soul’s deliverance
From the bondage of the bowl?
And to-night my wife will tell you,
Though I’ve houses, gold and land,
He holds no treasure more precious
Than this stocking in my hand.
THE FATAL PLEDGE.
“Pledge me with wine,” the maiden cried,
Her tones were gay and light;
“From others you have turned aside,
I claim your pledge to-night.”
The blood rushed to the young man’s cheek
Then left it deadly pale;
Beneath the witchery of her smile
He felt his courage fail.
For many years he’d been a slave
To the enchanting bowl,
Until he grasped with eager hands
The reins of self-control;
And struggled with his hated thrall,
Until he rent his chain,
And strove to stand erect and free,
And be a man again.
When others came with tempting words
He coldly turned aside,
But she who held the sparkling cup
Was his affianced bride;
And like a vision of delight,
Bright, beautiful and fair,
With thoughtless words she wove for him
The meshes of despair.
From jeweled hands he took the cup,
Nor heard the serpent’s hiss;
Nor saw beneath its ruby glow
The deadly adder’s hiss.
Like waves that madly, wildly dash,
When dykes are overthrown,
The barriers of his soul gave way,
Each life with wrecks was strewn.
And she who might have reached her hand
To succor and to save,
Soon wept in hopeless agony
Above a drunkard’s grave.
And bore through life with bleeding heart
Remembrance of that night,
When she had urged the tempted man
With wine to make his plight.
CHRIST’S ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM.
He had plunged into our sorrows,
And our sin had pierced his heart,
As before him loomed death’s shadow,
And he knew he must depart.
But they hailed him as a victor
As he into Salem came,
And the very children shouted
Loud hosannas to his name.
But he knew behind that triumph,
Rising gladly to the sky,
Soon would come the cries of malice:
Crucify him! Crucify!
Onward rode the blessed Saviour,
Conscious of the coming strife
Soon to break in storms of hatred
Round his dear, devoted life.
Ghastly in its fearful anguish
Rose the cross before his eyes,
But he saw the joy beyond it,
And did all the shame despise.
Joy to see the cry of scorning
Through the ages ever bright,
And the cross of shame transfigured
To a throne of love and light.
Joy to know his soul’s deep travail
Should not be a thing in vain,
And that joy and peace should blossom
From his agonizing pain.
THE RESURRECTION OF JESUS.
It was done, the deed of horror;
Christ had died upon the cross,
And within an upper chamber
The disciples mourned their loss.
Peter’s eyes were full of anguish,
Thinking sadly of the trial
When his boasted self-reliance
Ended in his Lord’s denial.
Disappointment, deep and heavy,
Shrouded every heart with gloom,
As the hopes so fondly cherished
Died around the garden tomb.
And they thought with shame and sorrow
How they fled in that dark hour,
When they saw their Lord and Master
In the clutch of Roman power.
We had hoped, they sadly uttered,
He would over Israel reign,
But to-day he lies sepulchred,
And our cherished hopes are vain.
In the humble home of Mary
Slowly waned the hours away,
Till she rose to seek the garden
And the place where Jesus lay.
Not the cross with all its anguish
Could her loving heart restrain,
But the tomb she sought was empty,
And her heart o’erflowed with pain.
To embalm my Lord and Master
To this garden I have strayed,
But, behold, I miss his body,
And I know not where he’s laid.
Then a wave of strange emotion
Swept her soul, as angels said,
“Wherefore do ye seek the living
’Mid the chambers of the dead?”
Unperceived, her Lord stood by her,
Silent witness of her grief,
Bearing on his lips the tidings
Sure to bring a glad relief.
But her tear-dimmed eyes were holden
When she heard the Master speak;
Thought she, only ’tis the gardener
Asking whom her soul did seek.
Then a sudden flush of gladness
O’er her grief-worn features spread;
When she knew the voice of Jesus
All her bitter anguish fled.
Forth she reached hands in rapture.
Touch me not, the Saviour said;
Take the message to my brethren,
I have risen from the dead.
Take them words of joy and comfort,
Which will all their mourning end;
To their Father and my Father,
Tell them that I will ascend.
“Brethren, I have seen the Master:
He is risen from the dead.”
But like words of idle meaning
Seemed the glorious words she said.
Soon they saw the revelation
Which would bid their mourning cease:
Christ, the risen, stood before them
Breathing words of love and peace.
Timid men were changed to heroes,
Weakness turned to wondrous might,
And the cross became their standard,
Luminous with love and light.
From that lonely upper chamber,
Holding up the rugged cross,
With a glad and bold surrender
They encountered shame and loss.
In these days of doubt and error,
In the conflict for the right,
May our hearts be ever strengthened
By the resurrection’s might.
SIMON’S COUNTRYMEN.
They took away his seamless robe,
With thorns they crowned his head,
As harshly, fiercely cried his foes:
“Barabbas in his stead.”
The friends he loved unto the end,
Who shared his daily bread,
Before the storms of wrath and hate
Forsook their Lord and fled.
To rescue men from death and sin
He knew the awful cost,
As wearily he bent beneath
The burden of the cross.
When Pilate had decreed his fate,
And Jews withheld their aid,
Then Simon, the Cyrenean, came:
On him the cross was laid.
Not his to smite with cruel scorn,
Nor mock the dying one,
That helpful man came from the land
Kissed by the ardent sun—
The land within whose sheltering arms
The infant Jesus lay
When Herod vainly bared his sword
And sought the child to slay.
Amid the calendar of saints
We Simon’s name may trace,
On history’s page thro’ every age
He bears an honored place.
He little knew that cross would change
Unto a throne of light;
The crown of thorns upon Christ’s brow
Would be forever bright.
Beneath the shadow of that cross
Brave men with outstretched hands
Have told the wondrous tale of love
In distant heathen lands.
And yet within our favored land,
Where Christian churches rise,
The dark-browed sons of Africa
Are hated and despised.
Can they who speak of Christ as King,
And glory in his name,
Forget that Simon’s countrymen
Still bear a cross of shame?
Can they forget the cruel scorn
Men shower on a race
Who treat the hues their Father gives
As emblems of disgrace?
Will they erect to God their fanes
And Christ with honor crown,
And then with cruel weights of pain
The African press down?
Oh, Christians, when we faint and bleed
In this our native land,
Reach out to us when peeled, opprest,
A kindly helping hand,
And bear aloft that sacred cross,
Bright from the distant years,
And say for Christ’s and Simon’s sake,
We’ll wipe away your tears.
For years of sorrow, toil and pain
We’ll bring you love and light,
And in the name of Christ our Lord
We’ll make your pathway bright.
That seamless robe shall yet enfold
The children of the sun,
Till rich and poor and bond and free
In Christ shall all be one.
And for his sake from pride and scorn
Our spirits shall be free,
Till through our souls shall sound the words
He did it unto me.
DELIVERANCE.
Rise up! rise up! Oh Israel,
Let a spotless lamb be slain;
The angel of death will o’er you bend
And rend your galling chain.
Sprinkle its blood upon the posts
And lintels of your door;
When the angel sees the crimson spots
Unharmed he will pass you o’er.
Gather your flocks and herds to-night,
Your children by your side:
A leader from Arabia comes
To be your friend and guide.
With girded loins and sandled feet
Await the hour of dread,
When Mizraim shall wildly mourn
Her first-born and her dead.
The sons of Abraham no more
Shall crouch ’neath Pharoah’s hand,
Trembling with agony and dread,
He’ll thrust you from the land.
And ye shall hold in unborn years
A feast to mark this day,
When joyfully the fathers rose
And cast their chains away.
When crimson tints of morning flush
The golden gates of day,
Or gorgeous hue of even melt
In sombre shades away,
Then ye shall to your children teach
The meaning of this feast,
How from the proud oppressor’s hand
Their fathers were released,
And ye shall hold through distant years
This feast with glad accord,
And children’s children yet shall learn
To love and trust the Lord.
Ages have passed since Israel trod
In triumph through the sea,
And yet they hold in memory’s urn
Their first great jubilee.
When Moses led the ransomed hosts,
And Miriam’s song arose,
While ruin closed around the path
Of their pursuing foes.
Shall Israel thro’ long varied years
These memories cherish yet,
And we who lately stood redeemed
Our broken chains forget?
Should we forget the wondrous change
That to our people came,
When justice rose and sternly plead
Our cause with sword and flame?
And led us through the storms of war
To freedom’s fairer shore,
When slavery sank beneath a flood
Whose waves were human gore.
Oh, youth and maidens of the land,
Rise up with one accord,
And in the name of Christ go forth
To battle for the Lord.
Go forth, but not in crimson fields,
With fratricidal strife,
But in the name of Christ go forth
For freedom, love and life.
Go forth to follow in his steps,
Who came not to destroy,
Till wastes shall blossom as the rose,
And deserts sing for joy.
SIMON’S FEAST.
He is coming, she said, to Simon’s feast,
The prophet of Galilee,
Though multitudes around him throng
In longing his face to see.
He enters the home as Simon’s guest,
But he gives no welcome kiss;
He brings no water to bathe his feet—
Why is Simon so remiss?
The prophet’s face is bright with love,
And mercy beams from his eye;
He pities the poor, the lame and blind,
An outcast, I will draw nigh.
If a prophet, he will surely know
The guilt of my darkened years;
With broken heart I’ll seek his face,
And bathe his feet with my tears.
No holy rabbi lays his hand
In blessing on my head;
No loving voice floats o’er the path,
The downward path I tread.
Unto the Master’s side she pressed,
A penitent, frail and fair,
Rained on his feet a flood of tears,
And then wiped them with her hair.
Over the face of Simon swept
An air of puzzled surprise;
Can my guest a holy prophet be,
And not this woman despise?
Christ saw the thoughts that Simon’s heart
Had written upon his face,
Kindly turned to the sinful one
In her sorrow and disgrace.
Where Simon only saw the stains,
Where sin and shame were rife,
Christ looked beneath and saw the germs
Of a fair, outflowering life.
Like one who breaks a galling chain,
And sets a prisoner free,
He rent her fetters with the words,
“Thy sins are forgiven thee.”
God be praised for the gracious words
Which came through that woman’s touch
That souls redeemed thro’ God’s dear Son
May learn to love him so much;
That souls once red with guilt and crime
May their crimson stains outgrow;
The scarlet spots upon their lives
Become whiter than driven snow.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
28 The king’s degree hung like a The king’s decree hung like a
gloomy pall gloomy pall
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.