University of Virginia Library


49

PEACE, BE STILL.

'T is not, my God, thy chastening hand,
'T is not the pain I bear,
That hangs upon my drooping heart
This heavy load of care.
But myriads move on wingèd feet
Made swift to do thy will,
While thy dread silence on me falls,
Thy mandate—Peace, be still.
All Nature's harps, in endless ranks,
By thy sweet breath are stirred;
And through my prison windows float
The sounds of breeze and bird.
Then up and up through golden air,
Beyond Time's ebb and flow,
I see the throngs, who cast their crowns,
In white robes bending low.
They come and go on flashing wings,
For all thine errands fleet;
While here, thy hand is on my lips,
Thy chains are on my feet.
Thus from my bed of chronic pain
I prayed—“O Lord, how long!”

50

Pining to reap the harvest fields
And sing the harvest song.
And in the hush of silence falls
This answer to my prayer,—
“What gave those throngs their flashing wings,
Whence come the robes they wear?
“Ere yet by word or deed or song
Made swift to do my will,
They learned it in the trial-hour
Beneath my—Peace, be still!
“And He who walked the garden shades
The best beloved Son,
Prayed, ere the strengthening angel came—
‘Thy will, not mine, be done!’”