Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/211

"Lord is it I?" But 'mid the mournful homes
Where pallid fear and agony chastise
Each wonted joy,—say, are there none who read
In all earth's change the counsels of the skies?
None, who close wrapped in panoply divine,
Show their faith's value in this hour of need?
Up, ye who follow with unshrinking step
Him who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp,
And do his holy will. Amid the haunts
Of poverty and pain, with angel-step
Send forth your bounty. On the cherished field
Where God hath given you nurture, fix the eye,
As one who soon may leave it. Lurks there aught
Of tare or bramble, in your hallowed bower?
Amid the vineyard of your dearest hopes,
Lurks there no root of bitterness?—no seed
Of truth unsown, which you would fain have watched
Unto the harvest? Are there olive-plants
Around your table, and do baleful weeds
Corrupt their root, or with their blossoms twine?
Go to your work with diligence, as one
Whose time is short. Strike to the secret heart
A searching glance,—and if aught linger there,
Though shrouded cunningly,—one evil germ,—
Be firm in extirpation, and invoke
The aid of that pure spirit, who doth deign
To dwell in fleshly temples and prepare
Equal for life or death, the trusting soul.