Classic Poem

The publican at custom's throng'd receipt
Was sitting; but his heart was far away,
And through the crowds that press'd around his feet
He mark'd Another passing by that day.
The Master spoke; and, when His voice was heard,
The servant rose obedient to His word.

His home was stored with every soft delight,
His secret coffers overflow'd with gold;
And many felt and many fear'd the might
With which his riches arm'd him. But, behold,
It needed but that low-breathed " Follow Me, "
And he surrender'd all, dear Lord, for Thee.

Was it the mighty impulse of that hour,
One sudden masterful resolve of will,
Which made him, quicken'd by Thy Spirit's power,
With seraph promptitude Thy word fulfil?
Or rather was it fruit of many years,
Which in Thy time of love now first appears; —

Even as the aloe, which in one brief night
Miraculously clothes itself in bloom,
Has nurtured in its bosom out of sight
The hidden germs of beauty and perfume?
Thou knowest, Who alone canst touch the springs
And read the deepest of the heart's deep things.

It may be, he had oftentimes confess'd
To his own heart its aching want and woe,
And felt that indescribable unrest
Which only Mammon's favourite children know;
And through the shadowy veil that hangs between
Had look'd on things eternal and unseen.

It may be, he had heard when Jesus spoke
Of rest for weary ones and sin forgiven,
Of patient service and the easy yoke,
And true and lasting treasures stored in heaven
The glories of the Father's house above,
The priesthood and the royalty of love.

Enough, the spring was touch'd: he gave up all,
And more than all rejoicing found in Christ;
A true disciple from his earliest call,
Apostle, prophet, and evangelist;
Who seal'd his faithful witness with his blood
And lived and loved and died a man of God.