The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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March 18
ORO, LABORO |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
95
March 18 ORO, LABORO
“That our God would count you worthy of this calling, and
fulfil all the good pleasure of his goodness, and the work
of faith with power.”—2 Thess. i. 11.
Oro, laboro, is my simple creed,
And nothing less;
For did no future fall to us indeed,
And could our little life of care stop short,
Or we go down for ever when in port
After sore stress;
Then man were greater even than God by Love,
And man above.
And nothing less;
For did no future fall to us indeed,
And could our little life of care stop short,
Or we go down for ever when in port
After sore stress;
Then man were greater even than God by Love,
And man above.
Clothed in the armour of an iron grief,
Christ's very own,
Tender as tears and still my best relief;
I rise, on stairs of sorrow, higher yet
Calmly without a fear, without regret,
To worlds unknown;
Except that He is with me to the end,
Saviour and Friend.
Christ's very own,
Tender as tears and still my best relief;
I rise, on stairs of sorrow, higher yet
Calmly without a fear, without regret,
To worlds unknown;
Except that He is with me to the end,
Saviour and Friend.
Oro, laboro! Restless as the earth
This human trust,
And restful as the heaven in dawn's new birth
When one blue rose of pure and perfect light,
While every sense is one immediate sight,
Conquers and must;
This would, though heaven were blotted out with pain,
Form it again.
This human trust,
And restful as the heaven in dawn's new birth
When one blue rose of pure and perfect light,
While every sense is one immediate sight,
Conquers and must;
This would, though heaven were blotted out with pain,
Form it again.
96
Higher and higher still I step, if faith
At times despond;
And many an ancient landmark like a wraith
Melts (as I move) a portion yet of all,
And dear old boundaries are although they fall
New skies beyond;
Pain upon pain my stairs, but each a throne
And stepping stone.
At times despond;
And many an ancient landmark like a wraith
Melts (as I move) a portion yet of all,
And dear old boundaries are although they fall
New skies beyond;
Pain upon pain my stairs, but each a throne
And stepping stone.
| The Prisoner of Love | |