Poems by the late John Bethune :: :: University of Virginia Library

To watch the world's distracted fold,
As with a parent's eye—
To teach the young, and warn the old,
That all on earth must die:
And more than all, to paint, to prove
To the faint gaze of faith,
How Jesus' sacrificial love
Brought life to them from death;
To tame the proud with truths severe—
The vile dissembler's mask
To rend, without respect or fear;
This is the Pastor's task!

To see, despite his toils and cares,
Bold vice triumphant boast—
To deem his vigils and his prayers,
By God and mankind lost;
To feel the everlasting fate
Of sinners on his head;
And tremble, as he scans the weight
Of guilt and judgment dread;
To think they scorn his warning voice,
Whose souls to him are dear—
And court damnation as their choice;
This is the Pastor's fear!

Within the dwellings of the poor
To wait with patient eye,
Mid sufferings which he cannot cure,
Wants he can not supply;

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To kneel beside the parent's bed,
Whose children, in despair,
Just hush their wailing cry for bread
To listen to his prayer;
To hear the groans, and see the woes,
Which will not brook relief—
The widow's and the orphan's woes;
This is the Pastor's grief!

Then who would choose a task so sad,
So full of grief and fear?
Has earth no scenes his heart to glad?
No sounds his soul to cheer?
Yes!—holy, happy is his choice,
When sinners round him meet
To listen to his sacred voice,
And all their fears repeat:
The trickling tears, and upturn'd eyes,
Which give their spirits scope,
Promise to him a heavenly prize;—
This is the Pastor's hope!

When some poor wretch, in guilt grown gray,
Touch'd by his warm appeal,
Is taught to think, repent, and pray,
With faith, and love, and zeal:
When he beholds some maiden's tear
Fall o'er the word of God,
And knows her feelings are sincere,
And that from love it flow'd:

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Then beats his heart with rapture high!—
If maiden, man, or boy,
Seem'd turn'd from darkness to the sky;
This is the Pastor's joy!

And oh! when time shall pass away—
When earth's proud pomp shall fade;
When God shall burst her burial clay,
And raise her countless dead—
To meet, amid the blest in heaven,
Many to whom he bore
The sacred hope of sins forgiven,
And warn'd to sin no more—
Mortals who pity him!—this is,
For all his labours hard—
Who would not wish to call it his?—
The Pastor's blest reward!