The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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October 1
BRUISES AND BALM |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
314
October 1 BRUISES AND BALM
“In all their affliction he was afflicted.”—Isa. lxiii. 9.
“With his stripes we are healed.”—Isa. liii. 5.
“He maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth, and his hands
make whole.”—Job. v. 18.
God's bruises are our own exceeding balm,
They carry with them rest;
The raging strife has still a core of calm
And in mid passion hides the conqueror's palm,
Pains first pierce Jesu's Breast;
And, O my brother, the most bitter cry
Holds place and honour in Eternity.
They carry with them rest;
The raging strife has still a core of calm
And in mid passion hides the conqueror's palm,
Pains first pierce Jesu's Breast;
And, O my brother, the most bitter cry
Holds place and honour in Eternity.
God's wounds, with which He tempers our wild zeal,
Before us fell on Him;
They are his sonship's great and blessèd seal
And in the very act of smiting heal,
Illuming life they dim;
And, in each cup of grief, the Saviour first
Drank of its utmost dregs and slaked His thirst.
Before us fell on Him;
They are his sonship's great and blessèd seal
And in the very act of smiting heal,
Illuming life they dim;
And, in each cup of grief, the Saviour first
Drank of its utmost dregs and slaked His thirst.
God's thorns that through thy bondage prick and press,
Those shadows, do but shape
In the Christ-trodden flame and fearful stress
Thy grievous faults to His own Loveliness,
Lost if we could escape;
And not one pang of one sweet message fails,
Christ blunts their points ere He inflicts the nails.
Those shadows, do but shape
In the Christ-trodden flame and fearful stress
Thy grievous faults to His own Loveliness,
Lost if we could escape;
And not one pang of one sweet message fails,
Christ blunts their points ere He inflicts the nails.
315
God's Body first was broken and His Heart,
That breaking might be dear;
And from each stroke He stole the deadly smart,
Bearing Himself the fiercest pain and part,
And bleeding with our spear;
Christ were not Christ unless His Cross were mine,
And God not God were not all loss Divine.
That breaking might be dear;
And from each stroke He stole the deadly smart,
Bearing Himself the fiercest pain and part,
And bleeding with our spear;
Christ were not Christ unless His Cross were mine,
And God not God were not all loss Divine.
God's Passion in my measure falls on me,
It is our living Breath;
Without its blessèd Altar who could see
Christ's open grave a mercy full and free—
But for that daily death?
There could be glory, none in earth and sky,
Were not each little step a Calvary.
It is our living Breath;
Without its blessèd Altar who could see
Christ's open grave a mercy full and free—
But for that daily death?
There could be glory, none in earth and sky,
Were not each little step a Calvary.
| The Prisoner of Love | |