Classic Poem

Servant of Christ—alas! how oft,
 With languid faith and senses dull,
Hast thou the import large forgot,
 Of those sweet words—“Be Pitiful.”

And yet how binding is the Law,
 Which love of self can ne'er annul,
The Law, which, taxing every heart,
 Would bid each pulse —“Be pitiful.”

“Be pitiful”—for longing eyes,
 Moist with such tears as Pilgrims shed,
Through blinding drops look up to Thee,
 When Hope is wrecked, and sunlight fled.

And he, who, in temptation's hour,
 Poor child of frailty, strayed and fell,
Shall in thine ear with quivering tone,
 His tale of sad defection tell.

Say not—'tis hard to stoop to woe,
 Nor yield but stinted sympathy;
Go, condescend to lowliest deed,
  When sin abased a God for thee .

Not stoop to woe? Yon sunbeam bright,
 Can nestle in a flowret's breast;
The Star can give itself to Earth;
 When mirrored 'neath the billow's crest,

Those Rainbow tints which paint the cloud,
 Can linger on the dancing spray;
The Bird which carols far aloft,
 Can chirp in quiet glens its lay.

So, child of Jesus, speed to bless
 The humblest soul that craves thy care,
Mindful, that for each gentle act,
 Thou shalt a Saviour's favor share.

Then, chronicled beyond the stars,
 “Thy righteous dealing” all shall be,
And Mercy, in the day of ire,
 Shall spring, a healing stream, for thee.