The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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April 12
BOOK OF THE HEART |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
125
April 12 BOOK OF THE HEART
“Whose is this image and superscription?”—St. Matt.
xxii. 20.
God reads us like an open book
And marks the writing on each page,
He values every fleeting look
As even the longest pilgrimage;
Beneath the pageant of the part,
He weighs the secret of the heart.
And marks the writing on each page,
He values every fleeting look
As even the longest pilgrimage;
Beneath the pageant of the part,
He weighs the secret of the heart.
Though sullied may be every line
And not a letter meetly made,
He sometimes sees a note Divine
And Glory bursting through the shade;
The fruitless day, the feeble shoot,
May have in Him a deeper root.
And not a letter meetly made,
He sometimes sees a note Divine
And Glory bursting through the shade;
The fruitless day, the feeble shoot,
May have in Him a deeper root.
He counts not much the gallant show,
The dazzle of a dying wraith,
But asketh what is writ below
And seeks the hidden love and faith;
For the poor dark and troubled years,
Are watered oft with God-like tears.
The dazzle of a dying wraith,
But asketh what is writ below
And seeks the hidden love and faith;
For the poor dark and troubled years,
Are watered oft with God-like tears.
What of the creases or the blot
That blurs the outward fact or form,
When splendid lives are moulded not
Except by unknown fire and storm?
God readeth us, we guess not where,
But looks to see His writing there.
That blurs the outward fact or form,
When splendid lives are moulded not
Except by unknown fire and storm?
God readeth us, we guess not where,
But looks to see His writing there.
| The Prisoner of Love | |