The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal

In the freshness of the spring-time,
In the beauty of the May,
When the swift-winged breezes carolled,
And the lambs were all at play,
And the birds were blithe and busy,
Upon her couch she lay.

Like a lily bruised and drooping,
Before its early flower
Had fully opened to the sun,
Or reached a noontide hour;
Broken and yet more fragrant
For the heavy-beating shower.

361

It was not the first spring-time
Passed without one glad sight
Of a starry primrose growing,
Or a brooklet swift and bright,
And without one bounding footstep
On a field with daisies white.

It was not the first spring-time—
And it might not be the last
In weariness and suffering
Thus to be slowly passed;
For when the young feet cannot move
Months do not travel fast.

And yet she saw what others
Have never sought or seen,
A splendour more than spring-light
On fair trees waving green,
And more than summer sunshine
On Ocean's silver sheen.

Her pencil, tracing feebly
Words that shall echo still,
Perchance some unknown mission
May joyously fulfil:—
‘I think I just begin to see
The splendour of God's will!’

O words of golden music
Caught from the harps on high,
Which find a glorious anthem
Where we have found a sigh,
And peal their grandest praises
Just where ours faint and die!

362

O words of holy radiance
Shining on every tear,
Till it becomes a rainbow,
Reflecting, bright and clear,
Our Father's love and glory
So wonderful, so dear!

O words of sparkling power,
Of insight full and deep!
Shall they not enter other hearts
In a grand and gladsome sweep,
And lift the lives to songs of joy
That only droop and weep?

For her, God's will was suffering,
Just waiting, lying still!
Days passing on in weariness,
In shadows deep and chill;
And yet she had begun to see
The Splendour of God's Will!

And oh, it is a splendour,
A glow of majesty,
A mystery of beauty,
If we will only see;
A very cloud of glory
Enfolding you and me.

A splendour that is lighted
At one transcendent flame,

363

The wondrous Love, the perfect Love,
Our Father's sweetest name;
For His very Name, and Essence,
And His Will are all the same!

A splendour that is shining
Upon His children's way;
That guides the willing footsteps
That do not want to stray,
And that leads them ever onward
Unto the perfect day.

A splendour that illumines,
Th' abysses of the Past
And marvels of the Future,
Sublime and bright and vast;
While o'er our tiny Present
A flood of light is cast.

No twilight falls upon it,
No shadow dims its ray,
No darkness overcomes it,
No night can end its day;
It hath unending triumph
And everlasting sway.

Blest Will of God! most glorious,
The very fount of grace,
Whence all the goodness floweth
That heart can ever trace—
Temple whose pinnacles are love,
And faithfulness its base.

364

Blest Will of God! whose splendour
Is dawning on the world,
On hearts in which Christ's banner
Is manfully unfurled,
On hearts of childlike meekness,
With dew of youth impearled.

O Spirit of Jehovah,
Reveal this glory still!
That many an empty chalice
Sweet thanks and praise may fill,
When, like this ‘little one,’ they see
‘The Splendour of God's Will:’

That faith may win the vision
That hers hath early won,
And gaze upon the splendour,
And own the cloudless sun,
And join the seraph song of love,
And sing—‘Thy Will be done!’

University of Virginia Library

‘The Splendour of God's Will.’