The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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May 24
GOD'S STRANGE WORK |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
175
May 24 GOD'S STRANGE WORK
“For the Lord shall rise up. . . . that he may do his work,
his strange work; and bring to pass his act, his strange
act.”—Isa. xxviii. 21.
God in His goodness makes us do strange things,
He drives us to the wilderness for bread
Or bids us from the rock find water springs,
And cries we cannot live till we are dead;
He saves us, through the flames we would deny,
From judgment only in it and thereby.
He drives us to the wilderness for bread
Or bids us from the rock find water springs,
And cries we cannot live till we are dead;
He saves us, through the flames we would deny,
From judgment only in it and thereby.
The shadow of his chastening is our sun
And pleasures that will last are born of pain,
The fancied end is pilgrimage begun
And from the husks of loss we gather grain;
The cruel wrong proves our most blessèd right,
And in the weakness of the Cross grows might.
And pleasures that will last are born of pain,
The fancied end is pilgrimage begun
And from the husks of loss we gather grain;
The cruel wrong proves our most blessèd right,
And in the weakness of the Cross grows might.
God says, “Be emptied if ye would be filled,
And in the silence hearken to My Voice,
Cease working and My Vineyard shall be tilled
And out of sorrow learn ye to rejoice;
Yea, idly were each service by thee done,
Till every act is Christ and self is none.”
And in the silence hearken to My Voice,
Cease working and My Vineyard shall be tilled
And out of sorrow learn ye to rejoice;
Yea, idly were each service by thee done,
Till every act is Christ and self is none.”
He leads us through the Passion to the palm
And by the desert to the land of rest,
Plucks from the tempest its white soul of calm
And smooths a pillow on the breaker's breast;
His choicest blessing is the hardest blow,
The gate of Heaven some little grave below.
And by the desert to the land of rest,
Plucks from the tempest its white soul of calm
And smooths a pillow on the breaker's breast;
His choicest blessing is the hardest blow,
The gate of Heaven some little grave below.
| The Prisoner of Love | |