The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
October 14
THE MYSTERY OF PAIN |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
|
|
 | 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 | |