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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
The Shower.
On every budding leaf and flower,
The sweet, soft rain of spring
Comes down in a soft and gentle shower,
Like a whispering angel-wing.
The sweet, soft rain of spring
Comes down in a soft and gentle shower,
Like a whispering angel-wing.
The shower hath bow'd the proud red rose
With many a fragrant tear,
It hath wakened the harebell's long repose,
The wanderer now to cheer.
With many a fragrant tear,
It hath wakened the harebell's long repose,
The wanderer now to cheer.
206
It hath given the woodbine strength to cling
To the strong elm's rugged bough;
And the wakeful pimpernel folds its wing,
And quietly slumbers now.
To the strong elm's rugged bough;
And the wakeful pimpernel folds its wing,
And quietly slumbers now.
It hath watered the seeds in their cold dark bed,
And they burst through the prisoning clay.
To the lingering buds it hath gently said,
‘Unfold to the bright sun-ray.’
And they burst through the prisoning clay.
To the lingering buds it hath gently said,
‘Unfold to the bright sun-ray.’
Among the leaves of the forest-tree
Its gentle footsteps go,
And they murmur thanks so pleasantly
In an anthem soft and low.
Its gentle footsteps go,
And they murmur thanks so pleasantly
In an anthem soft and low.
Showers there are for the thirsty soul,
A sweet and refreshing dew,
The Spirit who makes the wounded whole,
And the evil heart makes new.
A sweet and refreshing dew,
The Spirit who makes the wounded whole,
And the evil heart makes new.
He will teach the trembling one to cling
To an Arm of love and might;
And the earth-stained soul 'neath His holy wing
Shall again be pure and white.
To an Arm of love and might;
And the earth-stained soul 'neath His holy wing
Shall again be pure and white.
The weary heart with its wild unrest
He can hush to a trustful calm;
To the spirit crushed and sorely pressed
He comes with His healing balm.
He can hush to a trustful calm;
To the spirit crushed and sorely pressed
He comes with His healing balm.
207
He comes to the soul in its sin-wrought tomb,
And rent are the chains of death!
Then His own sweet graces awake and bloom
Beneath His living breath.
And rent are the chains of death!
Then His own sweet graces awake and bloom
Beneath His living breath.
Yes! the Spirit shall teach the heart to sing,
And shall tune its long silent lyre,
And He who shall meeten it prainse to bring
In the sinless, white-robed choir.
And shall tune its long silent lyre,
And He who shall meeten it prainse to bring
In the sinless, white-robed choir.
Come then, O Spirit, as once of yore,
Come in Thy quickening might!
Come, on Thy waiting Church to pour
Thy life, Thy grace, Thy light.
Come in Thy quickening might!
Come, on Thy waiting Church to pour
Thy life, Thy grace, Thy light.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |