The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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March 19
WORSHIP OF WORK |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
97
March 19 WORSHIP OF WORK
“Remembering without ceasing your work of faith, and labour
of love.”—1 Thess. i. 3.
Oro, laboro! Doubt itself finds place,
Darkness its room;
For he who once hath seen Truth's unveiled face
Looketh on God, and fear keeps too in chime
Ever with trust and only waits its time
Of coming bloom;
Grim barriers shelter, and do not confine,
Growth if Divine.
Darkness its room;
For he who once hath seen Truth's unveiled face
Looketh on God, and fear keeps too in chime
Ever with trust and only waits its time
Of coming bloom;
Grim barriers shelter, and do not confine,
Growth if Divine.
Surely to rise and feel nought comes amiss,
Loss upon loss;
Knowing the burden is our greatest bliss,
To see Redemption grandly working thus
Christ's Blessèd Passion alway still in us,
Cross over cross;
What vaster hope, though storms in fury strike,
Or more Godlike?
Loss upon loss;
Knowing the burden is our greatest bliss,
To see Redemption grandly working thus
Christ's Blessèd Passion alway still in us,
Cross over cross;
What vaster hope, though storms in fury strike,
Or more Godlike?
Oro, laboro! Never did such dream
As saving Fact,
Kindle the world with its transfiguring gleam;
As this that fashions out of holy grief
Temples and towers, our chosen grace and chief
Glory in act;
To climb up ever, on each ache and ill,
Ascending still!
As saving Fact,
Kindle the world with its transfiguring gleam;
As this that fashions out of holy grief
Temples and towers, our chosen grace and chief
Glory in act;
To climb up ever, on each ache and ill,
Ascending still!
98
This is God's measure, this His scale of worth,
Pang upon pang;
Nature fights with us and the travailing earth
That takes from suffering blossom fair and dew,
Transformed by woe, and on this do the new
Creations hang;
For what is any sorrow, but the glove
Of infinite Love?
Pang upon pang;
Nature fights with us and the travailing earth
That takes from suffering blossom fair and dew,
Transformed by woe, and on this do the new
Creations hang;
For what is any sorrow, but the glove
Of infinite Love?
| The Prisoner of Love | |