 | The British Months |  |
God's ways mysterious. His providence certain. How to be acknowledged
Mysterious are the ways of God!
Of them, whose careless footsteps trod
That morning Malvern's beacon'd height,
Why did the visitation light
On that selected party? Why
On these, and pass their fellows by,
Untouch'd, uninjur'd? He, who here
Surveys in memory's mirrour clear
The features of that fatal scene,
The hill, the hut, tbe grassy green,
Traced by his feet the day before,
Again the morrow's eve; the roar
Who heard of that dread thunder's sound,
Who saw the flash that smote the ground,
Safe in yon abbey's shade beneath;
Why did he 'scape the stroke of death?
The fate, which that sad pair befell,
Why does he still survive to tell;
And hang a melancholy verse
In memory on their early herse?
Of them, whose careless footsteps trod
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Why did the visitation light
On that selected party? Why
On these, and pass their fellows by,
Untouch'd, uninjur'd? He, who here
Surveys in memory's mirrour clear
The features of that fatal scene,
The hill, the hut, tbe grassy green,
Traced by his feet the day before,
Again the morrow's eve; the roar
Who heard of that dread thunder's sound,
Who saw the flash that smote the ground,
Safe in yon abbey's shade beneath;
Why did he 'scape the stroke of death?
The fate, which that sad pair befell,
Why does he still survive to tell;
And hang a melancholy verse
In memory on their early herse?
Such mystery 'tis not ours to solve,
Nor pierce the clouds, which oft involve
God's doings! But 'tis ours to own,
Howe'er “his footsteps be not known,
His march amid the sea he keeps,
His pathway 'mid the mighty deeps .”
'Tis ours before his throne to bow;
And own, who made, has knowledge how
To rule his creatures; and to trust
In Him, the good, the wise, the just.
But chief 'tis ours, when death's pale horse,
Wing'd with the vollied lightning's force,
Goes forth, and scatters from his crest
The noontide storm, the midnight pest,
And thousands fall around, beside;
To think on Him, whose feathers hide
Our dwelling from the deadly blast;
To count each menac'd danger past,
Each moment's yet prolong'd delay,
Our day of grace, salvation's day;
On Him in times of need recline,
And still, the more his mercies shine,
The more his bounteous name adore,
And better serve, and love Him more!
Nor pierce the clouds, which oft involve
God's doings! But 'tis ours to own,
Howe'er “his footsteps be not known,
His march amid the sea he keeps,
His pathway 'mid the mighty deeps .”
'Tis ours before his throne to bow;
And own, who made, has knowledge how
To rule his creatures; and to trust
In Him, the good, the wise, the just.
But chief 'tis ours, when death's pale horse,
Wing'd with the vollied lightning's force,
259
The noontide storm, the midnight pest,
And thousands fall around, beside;
To think on Him, whose feathers hide
Our dwelling from the deadly blast;
To count each menac'd danger past,
Each moment's yet prolong'd delay,
Our day of grace, salvation's day;
On Him in times of need recline,
And still, the more his mercies shine,
The more his bounteous name adore,
And better serve, and love Him more!
| The British Months | |