 | The Two Brothers, and other poems |  |
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THE TROUBLE OF JESUS' SOUL.
“And now is my soul troubled.” Can it be?
O speak the word again, and yet again.
Thy soul, O holy Saviour, troubled? Peace,
Be comforted, my weak and weary heart:
There is a deep unfathomable rest
In that low moan of anguish. Was Thy soul,
O Jesu, troubled, tempest-tost, like mine?—
Troubled?—Thy faith held fast her anchor-hold
Upon the Rock of everlasting strength:
For Thee the light of coming glory shone
Beyond all clouds, that wrapp'd the vale of death:
It was Thy daily meat and drink to do
Thy Father's will, which in Thy secret breast
Was ever springing up a well of life,
The world knew nothing of. And yet Thy soul
Was troubled.
O speak the word again, and yet again.
Thy soul, O holy Saviour, troubled? Peace,
Be comforted, my weak and weary heart:
There is a deep unfathomable rest
In that low moan of anguish. Was Thy soul,
O Jesu, troubled, tempest-tost, like mine?—
Troubled?—Thy faith held fast her anchor-hold
Upon the Rock of everlasting strength:
For Thee the light of coming glory shone
Beyond all clouds, that wrapp'd the vale of death:
It was Thy daily meat and drink to do
Thy Father's will, which in Thy secret breast
220
The world knew nothing of. And yet Thy soul
Was troubled.
Trouble then was uppermost,
Not joy, not peace, but trouble and unrest,
What time these holy words dropp'd from Thy lips:
There was no stain of sin in them, no film
Of evil; only grief, deep sinless grief,
As when a tempest scourges into waves
A calm and crystal lake.
Not joy, not peace, but trouble and unrest,
What time these holy words dropp'd from Thy lips:
There was no stain of sin in them, no film
Of evil; only grief, deep sinless grief,
As when a tempest scourges into waves
A calm and crystal lake.
Oh, peace, my heart:
It is not sin to feel the bitterness
Of sorrow, nor to tremble, as the storm
Rocks the foundations of our little all:
It is not sin to weep, and make our moan.
Nay, for this human suffering Jesus felt,
And wept, and shudder'd, and confess'd His woe;
Though almost in the self-same breath of prayer
He pleaded, “Father, glorify Thy name,”
And meekly bow'd His head to bear the cross.
I thank Thee, Lord, for these Thy words of grief;
I thank Thee more for Thy victorious love:
So teach me at Thy feet to kneel and learn,
Until my feeble prayer re-echoes Thine,
“Father, Thy will, not mine, Thy will be done.”
It is not sin to feel the bitterness
Of sorrow, nor to tremble, as the storm
Rocks the foundations of our little all:
It is not sin to weep, and make our moan.
Nay, for this human suffering Jesus felt,
And wept, and shudder'd, and confess'd His woe;
Though almost in the self-same breath of prayer
He pleaded, “Father, glorify Thy name,”
And meekly bow'd His head to bear the cross.
221
I thank Thee more for Thy victorious love:
So teach me at Thy feet to kneel and learn,
Until my feeble prayer re-echoes Thine,
“Father, Thy will, not mine, Thy will be done.”
1862.
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