A Celtic Psaltery Part 21

"Consider the fowls of the air, behind your harrows; They plough not, they reap not, nor gather grain away, Yet your Heavenly Father cares for them; then, if he feed the sparrows, Shall He not rather feed you, His children, day by day?"

THE GOOD PHYSICIAN

To find Him they flock, young and old, from their cities, With hearts full of hope: for the tidings had spread: "The proud He rebukes and the poorest He pities, Recovers the leper, upraises the dead."

So the shepherd has left his sheep lone on the mountain, The woodman his axe buried fast in the pine, The maiden her pitcher half-filled at the fountain, The housewife her loom and the fisher his line.

With their babes on their bosoms, their sick on their shoulders, Toilsomely thronging by footpath and ford, Now resting their burthens among the rude boulders, Still they come climbing in search of the Lord.

Until on the Mount, with the morn they have found Him-- Christ, the long sought--they have found Him at length, With their sick and their stricken, in faith they flock round Him, As sighing He looks up to Heaven for strength.

He has touched the deaf ears and the blind eyes anointed-- And straightway they hear Him and straightway they see; Laid hands on the lame and they leap, supple-jointed, The devils denounced and affrighted they flee.

Yea? for their faith, from each life-long affliction, Yea, for their faith from their sins they are freed, And therefore have earned His divine benediction--

Stretch forth Thy hand, for as sore is our need.

Lord! we are deaf, we are dumb, lost in blindness, Lepers and lame and by demons possessed!

Lord, we are dead! of Thine infinite kindness Restore us, redeem! bear us home on Thy breast.

THE SOWER

A Sower went forth to sow, But His seed on the wayside showered; A bird-flock out of the air flashed low And the goodly grain devoured.

A Sower went forth to sow, O'er hid rocks plying his toil; The seed leaped up at the warm sun's glow, But withered for lack of soil.

A Sower went forth to sow, And his seed took steadfast root; But flaming poppies and thorns in row Sprang up and strangled the fruit.

A Sower went forth to sow, And at last his joy he found; For his good seed's generous overflow Sank deep into gracious ground.

Lord, when we look back on our lives, With penitent sighs and tears, Our evil that with Thee strives and strives In Thy parable's truth appears.

As the wayside hard were our hearts, Where Thy good seed lightly lay, For the Devil's flock, as it downward darts, To bruise and to bear away.

Thy winged words falling nigher Sprang up in our souls with haste, But they could not endure temptation's fire And withered and went to waste.

Within us Thy word once more Thou sowest, but--sore beset With worldly weeds--for Thy threshing floor Shall it ever ripen yet?

Yea, Lord, it shall if Thou please, In pa.s.sionate, patient prayer, To draw the nation upon its knees And fill it with Heavenly care.

And so shall we all arise In the joy of a soul's re-birth To hold a communion with the skies That shall bring down Heaven to earth.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

(From the Scotch Gaelic)

Tedious grew the time to me Within the Courts of Blessing; My secure felicity, For folly I forswore; Vain delusion wrought my woe Till now, in want distressing, I go begging to and fro Upon an alien sh.o.r.e.

In my dear old home of peace, Around my father's table Many a servant sits at ease And eats and drinks his fill; While within a filthy stall With loathsome swine I stable, Sin-defiled and scorned of all To starve on husk and swill.

Ah, how well I mind me Of the happy days gone over!

Love was then behind me, Before me, and around; Then, light as air, I leapt, A laughing little rover, Now dull and heavy-stepped I pace this desert ground.

Sin with flattering offers came; Against my Sire rebelling I yielded my good name At the Tempter's easy smile; In fields that were not ours, Brighter blooming, richer smelling, I ravished virgin flowers With a heart full of guile.

'Twas thus an open shame In the sight of all the n.o.ble, Yea! a monster I became, Till my gold ceased to flow, And my fine fair-weather friends Turned their backs upon my trouble.

Now an outcast to Earth's ends Under misery I go.

Yet though bitter my disgrace, Than every ill severer Is the thought of the face Of the Sire for whom I long.

I shall see Him no more Though to me he now is dearer Than he ever was, before I wrought him such wrong.

And yet ere I die I will journey forth to meet him.

Home I will hie, For he yet may be won.

For Pardon and Peace My soul will entreat him, "Father, have grace On thy Prodigal Son!"

Could I get near enough To send him a message-- I keeping far off-- He would not say me nay.

In some little nook He would find me a living And let none be driving His shamed son away.

The Penitent arose, His scalding tears blinding him; Hope's ray lit his way As homeward he pressed.

Afar off his father's Fond eyes are finding him, And the old man gathers His boy to his breast.

ST. MARY MAGDALEN

They who have loved the most The most have been forgiven, And with the Devil's host Most mightily have striven.

And so it was of old With her, once all unclean, Now of the saints white-stoled-- Mary, the Magdalen.

For though in Satan's power She seemed for ever fast, Her Saviour in one hour Seven devils from her cast.