The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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October 14
THE MYSTERY OF PAIN |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
328
October 14 THE MYSTERY OF PAIN
“No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous . . . afterward
it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness.”—
Heb. xii. 11.
Pain is a mystery, but still
I would not once abate
A pulse of any ache or ill,
Which does but educate
My foolish life that needs the knife
To crown and consecrate.
It is a key that opens doors
To larger lands and skies,
It gives me gleams of crystal floors
And day that never dies;
While leading, out of night and doubt,
Into the eternities.
I would not once abate
A pulse of any ache or ill,
Which does but educate
My foolish life that needs the knife
To crown and consecrate.
It is a key that opens doors
To larger lands and skies,
It gives me gleams of crystal floors
And day that never dies;
While leading, out of night and doubt,
Into the eternities.
And at the inmost heart of flame
I find no crushing grief,
But something that can task and tame
The suffering to seem brief;
And in the fire is born desire,
Which is its own relief.
I feel it is a pathway trod
With many a cruel slip,
Which marries yet my soul to God
Even in its burning grip;
And, on its pangs, the furnace hangs
A fairer Fellowship.
I find no crushing grief,
But something that can task and tame
The suffering to seem brief;
And in the fire is born desire,
Which is its own relief.
I feel it is a pathway trod
With many a cruel slip,
Which marries yet my soul to God
Even in its burning grip;
And, on its pangs, the furnace hangs
A fairer Fellowship.
The Prisoner of Love | ||