 | Songs Old and New |  |
189
THE SCHOOL AND THE HOME.
Why do we moan, and wonderingly complain,
And murmur, O mysterious ways of God!
When the fine gold whence beams His image plain
Is stored within His innermost abode?
And murmur, O mysterious ways of God!
When the fine gold whence beams His image plain
Is stored within His innermost abode?
It were mysterious if the Master's Hand
Lavished its skill some choice work to prepare,
And then unfinished, cast it on the strand,
To perish incomplete and broken there.
Lavished its skill some choice work to prepare,
And then unfinished, cast it on the strand,
To perish incomplete and broken there.
But when the last completing touch is given,
The master-touch that all the rest inspires,
And the rich colours and the gold of heaven,—
Enamelled in the last of many fires,—
The master-touch that all the rest inspires,
And the rich colours and the gold of heaven,—
Enamelled in the last of many fires,—
Shine forth at length to full perfection wrought,
A vessel meet the Master's House to grace,
A picture breathing with the Master's thought,
A portrait beaming back the Master's Face;—
A vessel meet the Master's House to grace,
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A portrait beaming back the Master's Face;—
What wonder if His treasure thence He take,
Where earthly damps the burnished gold might dim,
Where careless hands the gracious form might break—
Take to the Father's House, within, with Him?
Where earthly damps the burnished gold might dim,
Where careless hands the gracious form might break—
Take to the Father's House, within, with Him?
What wonder, when the training of the schools
Has done such work as schools and lessons can,—
When through the discipline of tasks and rules
The boy compacts,—expands,—into the man,—
Has done such work as schools and lessons can,—
When through the discipline of tasks and rules
The boy compacts,—expands,—into the man,—
If to the Field the Father bids him come,
Where manhood's earnest standards are unfurled?
Is not the school an exile from the home?
Is not the school the threshold of a world?
Where manhood's earnest standards are unfurled?
Is not the school an exile from the home?
Is not the school the threshold of a world?
Who wonders when the finished gem is borne
Its light upon the Sovereign's brow to yield?
Who would not wonder if the ripened corn
Were left to wither on the harvest-field?
Its light upon the Sovereign's brow to yield?
Who would not wonder if the ripened corn
Were left to wither on the harvest-field?
Yet we who wander o'er the leafless land
Where golden sheaves waved musical and fair,
On us fall heavily, as thus we stand,
The blank and silence of the falling year.
Where golden sheaves waved musical and fair,
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The blank and silence of the falling year.
Still at the school we miss the brother's eye
Whose working near us made us work our best,
Whose generous smile still drew our aims on high,
Whose ripe achievement shamed self-soothing rest.
Whose working near us made us work our best,
Whose generous smile still drew our aims on high,
Whose ripe achievement shamed self-soothing rest.
We mourn, “O God! we needed him so much!
Here are so many tangling coils to loose,
So many hearts that need the tenderest touch,
So few hands trained like his to finest use!
Here are so many tangling coils to loose,
So many hearts that need the tenderest touch,
So few hands trained like his to finest use!
“And hast Thou thus through blows and fires,” we sigh,
“And subtlest touches, shaped this instrument
For choicest work, only to rest on high?”
But swift the answer smites our discontent:
“And subtlest touches, shaped this instrument
For choicest work, only to rest on high?”
But swift the answer smites our discontent:
“This earth is but for learning and for training,
Earth's highest work but such as children do;
The workmen here their priceless skill are gaining,
The true life-work is yonder, out of view.”
Earth's highest work but such as children do;
The workmen here their priceless skill are gaining,
The true life-work is yonder, out of view.”
Lord! we would bow, while faith our grief controls,
And thank Thee for the liberating blow
Which breaks these chains wherewith we cramp our souls
To little rounded dreams of life below,—
And thank Thee for the liberating blow
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To little rounded dreams of life below,—
Which shows this life doth but our life begin,
Is but outside, the Porch of the Abode;
And death the going home, the entering in,
The stepping forth on the wide world of God.
Is but outside, the Porch of the Abode;
And death the going home, the entering in,
The stepping forth on the wide world of God.
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