University of Virginia Library

“Say, what shall I believe?” my neighbor said
Late yesternight, when light discourse had led
To graver themes. “For me, I stand perplexed,
While fierce polemics each upon his text
Of Scriptural foundation builds his creed,
And cries, ‘Lo! here is Truth! the Truth!’ I need
Some surer way than theologians teach
In dogmas of the sects.” I answered, “Each
Must do his own believing. As for me,
My creed is short as any man's may be;
'T is written in ‘The Sermon on the Mount,’
And in the ‘ Pater-Noster’; I account
The words ‘Our Father’ (had we lost the rest
Of that sweet prayer, the briefest and the best
In all the liturgies) of higher worth,
To ailing souls, than all the creeds on earth.
A Father loves his children—that I know—
And fain would make them happy. Even so
Our Heavenly Father—as we clearly learn
From his dear Word, and dimly may discern
From his fair Works—for us, his children, weak
To walk unhelped, and little prone to seek
In all our ways what best deserves his smile
Of approbation, careth all the while
With love ineffable. 'T is little more
Of his designs I venture to explore
Save with the eye of Faith. With that I see
(Aided by Reason's glasses) what may be
Hereafter, in that ‘Coming Kingdom’ when
The King shall justify his ways with men
On earth.”
“And what,” my doubting friend inquired,
“Shall be our destiny?”
“No tongue inspired
Hath plainly told us that. I cannot tell—
It is not given to know—where we shall dwell:
I only know—and humbly leave the rest
To Wisdom Infinite—that what is best
For each will be his place; that we shall wear
In the Beyond the character we bear
In passing; with what meliorating change
Of mind and soul, within the endless range
Of their activities, I cannot tell.
I know ‘Our Father’ doeth all things well,
And loves and changes not.”
“Alas! we know
The earth is rife with unavailing woe!”
My friend made answer. “How can such things be?
The Father being perfect we should see
His government the same”—
“Would he not err,—
The hasty judge,—who, having seen the stir
In the first Act of some well-ordered play,
Should cry, ‘Preposterous!’ and go away
And criticise the whole (four Acts unseen!)
As ill-contrived, inconsequent, and mean!”

“Something germane to this,” my daughter said,
“In an old Jewish tale I lately read:
To pious Bildad, deeply mourning one
Whom he had deeply loved,—his only son,—
Who of the plague had died that very day,
Came his friend Amos, saying, ‘Tell me, pray,
What grief is this that bows thy reverend head?’
The mourner answered, pointing to the bed
Whereon was laid the body of the youth,
‘Behold, my friend, the cause! good cause, in sooth,
For one to weep, who sees his hopes decay,—
The work of years all blasted in a day,
As there thou seest!’ Amos, answering, said,
‘'T is true, indeed, thine only son is dead;
And as thy love even so thy grief is great;
But tell me, friend, doth not thy faith abate
In some degree the sharpness of thy pain?’
‘Alas!’ said Bildad, ‘how can I refrain
From these despairing tears, when thus I find
My anxious care to cultivate the mind,
The wondrous gifts and graces of my son,
Untimely doomed to death, is all undone?’
Touched by his sorrow, Amos sat awhile
In silent thought; then, with a beaming smile,
As one who offers manifest relief,
He said, ‘O Bildad! let it soothe thy grief,
That He who gave the talents thou hast sought
To cherish, and by culture wouldst have wrought
To highest excellence in this thy son,
Will surely finish what thou hast begun!’”