And he who loved her more than all, Who purged by sorrow his offenses, Shall shine, in realms celestial, With glory, quit of sins and senses.
Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine;" "I will repay," saith the Lord; Ours be the anger divine, Lit by the flash of his word.
How shall his vengeance be done? How, when his purpose is clear? Must he come down from the throne? Hath he no instruments here?
Sleep not in imbecile trust, Waiting for God to begin; While, growing strong in the dust, Rests the bruised serpent of sin.
Right and Wrong--both cannot live Death-grappled. Which shall we see? Strike! Only Justice can give Safety to all that shall be.
Shame! to stand faltering thus, Tricked by the balancing odds; Strike! God is waiting for us! Strike! for the vengeance is God's!
Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth.
One stitch dropped as the weaver drove His nimble shuttle to and fro, In and out, beneath, above, Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow As if the fairies had helping been; One small stitch which could scarce be seen, But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out, And a weak place grew in the fabric stout; And the perfect pattern was marred for aye By the one small stitch that was dropped that day.
One small life in God's great plan, How futile it seems as the ages roll, Do what it may or strive how it can To alter the sweep of the infinite whole! A single stitch in an endless web, A drop in the ocean's flood and ebb! But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost, Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed; And each life that fails of its true intent Mars the perfect plan that its Master meant.
An angel came from the courts of gold, With gifts and tidings manifold; With blessings many to crown the one Whose work of life was the noblest done.
He came to a rich man's gilded door; Where a beautiful lady stood before His vision, fair as the saints are fair, With smile as sweet as the seraphs wear.
He needed not to be told her life-- The pure young mother, the tender wife; He needed not to be told that she, In home of sorrow and poverty,
