The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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November 2
MARCHING HOME |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
348
November 2 MARCHING HOME
“Till thy people pass over, O Lord.”—Exod. xv. 16.
We are marching Home to God, who is Home and Heaven and all,
In the way our fathers trod, though they heeded not the call;
Though they knew not that He led, slowly, surely,
With the dying, with the dead,
By the bier or marriage bed, yet securely;
Onward to the blessèd Goal through the shadow and the shoal,
Murmurous wood and waters' brim—
To our final Peace in Him;
Tending to the mighty Ocean, as the rivers run at last
To their bridal with the sea,
In our doubt or calm devotion when the work of life is past
By each royal prayer or plea.
In the way our fathers trod, though they heeded not the call;
Though they knew not that He led, slowly, surely,
With the dying, with the dead,
By the bier or marriage bed, yet securely;
Onward to the blessèd Goal through the shadow and the shoal,
Murmurous wood and waters' brim—
To our final Peace in Him;
Tending to the mighty Ocean, as the rivers run at last
To their bridal with the sea,
In our doubt or calm devotion when the work of life is past
By each royal prayer or plea.
Yes, the vast creations prove, if by dark and devious course,
All together truly move upward to their hidden Source;
We obey the silent Voice, in our going
With the old eternal choice
As we weep or would rejoice, backward flowing.
In the wildest chance or change, still no humblest form can range
(Whatsoe'er the grief or goad)
From its predetermined road.
Should the fire be heated hotter and the beauteous vessel crack
Or forget awhile its grace;
Yet we know the Heavenly Potter guideth us along the track,
To His Love our Dwelling-place.
All together truly move upward to their hidden Source;
We obey the silent Voice, in our going
With the old eternal choice
As we weep or would rejoice, backward flowing.
In the wildest chance or change, still no humblest form can range
(Whatsoe'er the grief or goad)
From its predetermined road.
349
Or forget awhile its grace;
Yet we know the Heavenly Potter guideth us along the track,
To His Love our Dwelling-place.
| The Prisoner of Love | |