Poems (Shipton)/Isaac

by Anna Shipton

ISAAC.

"Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him. For He knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust."—Psalm ciii. 13, 14.

Not within thy heart's best chamber,
In fond memory's fragrant amber,
 Hoard the treasure God hath given;
For the moth of time will fray it,
And the rust of earth decay it:
 Lay thy loved one up—in heaven.

He who lent it safe can keep it:
While He sees thee over-weep it,
 Will He spurn thy sob of sorrow?
Tenderly He bendeth o'er thee;
Forty-fold He will restore thee,
 In the cloudless land—to-morrow.

Up the mountain—slowly—slowly,
For the sacrifice is holy:
 Doth He call dead hearts to follow?
Nay, but living ones: well knowing,
That the life-tide overflowing
 Pays no tribute cold and hollow.

Clings the sick child, faint and ailing;
Doth the mother mock its wailing,
 Feeble though the hands that hold it?
Closer—closer to her bosom
Will she clasp the fading blossom,
 And in deeper love enfold it.

Lay it down—thy heart's best treasure;
Christ alone the pang can measure.
 Doth He count thee an offender,
For the trembling hand that brings it,
Or the sigh when sorrow wrings it,
 O'er a love so true and tender?

Through the falling tears, bedewing
All the piled wood of thy doing,
 He His loving heart revealeth:
Every silent pang is needed,
Not a tear-drop falls unheeded;
 He His sweet acceptance sealeth.

Wilt thou trust Him, though He gather
Back thy loved one? 'Tis thy Father!
 And He knows thee sad and lonely.
Up the mount! One standeth near thee,
And thy sorrows more endear thee;
 Journey on with "Jesus only."

"Wait not: thy warm breath may mar it,
Loving bonds but bind and bar it
 From a higher, holier soaring;
Now upon God's altar lay it:
Canst thou trust Him? Will He slay it?
 He may prove thee by restoring.

Love, His love, doth mark thy going,
With compassion overflowing;
 Hark! He whispers, "I am with thee,
I upheld thy first faint struggle;
Child, I will reward thee double,
 And thy treasure back will give thee."

Lay it down! Beyond the river
Thou shalt praise anew the Giver,
 Through a life of endless glory
Trace the path by which He brought thee,
Sing the melodies He taught thee,
 Tell to angel-host thy story.

Faint thy whispered love is spoken;
Ah, thy words sound cold and broken
 Unto hearts less fond and fervent.
Christ hath caught the sob that mourned it,
And His smile to prayer hath turned it,
 While He saith, "My faithful servant!"

Lay it down! Ah, thou hast laid it;
Richly hath thy love arrayed it!
 Yet 'twill fairer be, and never
Shall the dust becloud its sweetness;
But, transformed to heavenly meetness,
 Thou mayst call it thine for ever.