Poems By Richard Chenevix Trench: New ed |
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THE SUPPLIANT. |
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138
THE SUPPLIANT.
All night the lonely suppliant prayed,
All night his earnest crying made;
Till standing by his side at morn,
The Tempter said in bitter scorn:
‘Oh! peace: what profit do you gain
From empty words and babbling vain?’
“Come, Lord—oh, come!” you cry alway;
You pour your heart out night and day;
Yet still no murmur of reply,—
No voice that answers, “Here am I.”’
All night his earnest crying made;
Till standing by his side at morn,
The Tempter said in bitter scorn:
‘Oh! peace: what profit do you gain
From empty words and babbling vain?’
“Come, Lord—oh, come!” you cry alway;
You pour your heart out night and day;
Yet still no murmur of reply,—
No voice that answers, “Here am I.”’
Then sank that stricken heart in dust,
That word had withered all its trust:
No strength retained it now to pray,
For faith and hope had fled away:
And ill that mourner now had fared,
Thus by the Tempter's art ensnared,
But that at length beside his bed
His sorrowing Angel stood, and said,—
‘Doth it repent thee of thy love,
That never now is heard above
Thy prayer, that now not any more
It knocks at heay'n's gate as before?’
That word had withered all its trust:
No strength retained it now to pray,
For faith and hope had fled away:
And ill that mourner now had fared,
Thus by the Tempter's art ensnared,
But that at length beside his bed
His sorrowing Angel stood, and said,—
‘Doth it repent thee of thy love,
That never now is heard above
Thy prayer, that now not any more
It knocks at heay'n's gate as before?’
—“I am cast out—I find no place,
No hearing at the throne of grace:
‘Come, Lord—oh, come!’ I cry alway,
I pour my heart out night and day,
Yet never until now have won
The answer,—‘Here am I, my son.’”
No hearing at the throne of grace:
139
I pour my heart out night and day,
Yet never until now have won
The answer,—‘Here am I, my son.’”
—‘Oh, dull of heart! enclosed doth lie
In each “Come, Lord,” a “Here am I.”
Thy love, thy longing, are not thine,
Reflections of a love divine:
Thy very prayer to thee was given,
Itself a messenger from heaven.
Whom God rejects, they are not so;
Strong bands are round them in their woe;
Their hearts are bound with bands of brass,
That sigh or crying cannot pass.
All treasures did the Lord impart
To Pharaoh, save a contrite heart:
All other gifts unto his foes
He freely gives, nor grudging knows;
But love's sweet smart and costly pain
A treasure for his friends remain.’
In each “Come, Lord,” a “Here am I.”
Thy love, thy longing, are not thine,
Reflections of a love divine:
Thy very prayer to thee was given,
Itself a messenger from heaven.
Whom God rejects, they are not so;
Strong bands are round them in their woe;
Their hearts are bound with bands of brass,
That sigh or crying cannot pass.
All treasures did the Lord impart
To Pharaoh, save a contrite heart:
All other gifts unto his foes
He freely gives, nor grudging knows;
But love's sweet smart and costly pain
A treasure for his friends remain.’
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