Poems (Shipton)/My Garden-Ground

by Anna Shipton

MY GARDEN-GROUND.

"My Beloved is gone down into His garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies."—Sol. Song vi. 2.

God granted me a garden-ground
 Within this desert land;
And thorns bloomed in the wilderness,
 By heavenly breezes fanned.
A brook ran rippling by the way,
 And made sweet music there;
The fairest vineyard of the south
 Seemed never half so fair.

One came, when barren lay the field,
 Of gracious speech was He;
As mother to her listening child,
 Thus spake my Lord to me:
"I am the Husbandman, and thou
 From me this land dost hold;
More precious is the smallest blade
 Than Ophir's purest gold.

"Work for Me, work thy one brief hour,
 For Me, thy Friend, and ne'er
Dread thou the drought, or fear the cloud,
 But cast on Me thy care.
Far on the breeze, each winged germ
 May mock thine anxious gaze:
Thou'lt find it in the fatherland,
 The growth of many days.

"Raise thou the bruised and broken plants
 The storm may bend around;
Shelter for me the tender vine
 Within thy garden-ground.
Let not the lack of harvest fruit
 Thy heart's allegiance move;
My hand deals forth the best for thee,
 And all is done in love.

"'Tis not for thee to judge the need
 Of watching, tears, and toil;
A fairer clime awaits thy plants,
 Now in a foreign soil.
And see! to cheer thy path awhile,
 This crystal brook shall run;
Its voice shall chime in happy praise
 With thine, my lonely one!"

I answered, "Lord, how good it is!
 How great Thy mercies be!
Yes, I will keep this garden-ground,
 And tend it but for Thee.
All Thine! for ever, Lord, all Thine!
 The stream, the flowers, the fruit.
Such love beams in Thy gifts to me!
 My tongue hath long been mute:

"Now I can only say, ''Tis Thine!'
 Ask what Thou lovest best,
And I will cull my first ripe fruit,
 For Thou my hand hast blest."
So day by day I worked and sang;
 Though many a night I wept
To see the blight or weed arise,
 But still my watch I kept.

Brightest beside my purling brook
 My buds of promise grew;
I loved the sunshine on the wave,
 And the sparkling spray it threw.
I saw reflected in its face
 Our April's changing sky,
The glory of the sunset eve,
 And night's fair canopy.

No message came for fruit or flower;
 But, as I passed along
At noon, I missed the warbling brook
 That cheered me with its song.
I cried, "Oh, anything but this
 Hadst Thou but chosen, Lord!
That brook had sweeter songs for me
 Than any summer bird."

He eluded not, that Husbandman,
 But whispered, while I mourned,
"Only believe!"and then I thought
 My little brook returned.
It soothed me with an angel tongue,
 And stilled my falling tear:
"O dear one!"thus it seemed to sing,
 "Rejoice I am not here!

"My voice rings in thy future home,
 And Jesus loves the strain;
Oh, never, never wish me back
 'Mid earthly scenes again.
No summer heat can reach me there,
 No winter's frost or snow;
And radiant in the light of life
 My rippling wavelets flow.

"Not lost for thee the silver stream,
 Not dumb my summer song;
Beyond the Jordan's wave it flows
 Far fairer fields among,
Praising the love that marked the path
 That once was blindly trod:
Thus we together still make glad
 The city of our God."

So comforted, my sorrowing head
 Bowed to the silence there;
But still I said, "No other brook
 Was ever half so fair."
But I will now but deeper drink
 From whence its source began;
Deep from the rivers of Thy love,
 Whence, Lord, my brooklet ran.

Still worked I in my garden ground,
 While autumn days drew nigh,
And then the Husbandman returned.
 He passed my ripe grapes by;
He gathered not the pom'granate,
 Nor bent the green fig's bough;
Soft breathing o'er the beds of spice,
 His voice has found me now.

Close at my side a lily grew,
 A fragile bud so small;
None marked it, but I cherished it
 The dearest of them all.
He paused beside my flower awhile,
 My heart grew faint and cold;
I cried, "Lord, wait; that little one
 Will fairer hues unfold."

He heeded not; He plucked my bud,
 And, smiling on me, said,
"I planted it, and it shall bloom
 In Paradise instead:
For it this clime is all too cold;
 But there, 'mid Eden's bowers,
The lily-bud will grow to be
 The fairest of my flowers.

"Weep not! I am not grieved with thee;
 Though I thy treasures cull,
'Tis but to give them back again
 More richly beautiful.
I lent them to thy loving heart,
 And soon thy Lord shall say,
'Thy work is done, thy crown is won,
 Rise up and come away.'

"Still tend for me one fleeting hour
 This garden of thy care,
Days there will be when thou wilt miss
 Thy bud and streamlet there:
Look to the plains of Paradise
 Where joys immortal beam;
There thou wilt find thy bud a flower,
 Thy rippling brook a stream.

"One flows in anthems rich in praise
 In heaven's eternal rest;
Thy folded bud will blossom fair
 On Jesu's tender breast.
Soon shall the singing of the birds
 Rejoice thy listening ear;
The shadows lengthening in the sun
 Disclose the dawn is near."

Now on I go, and bless the spot
 Where once the brooklet ran,
And trace the wisdom and the love
 That led the Husbandman
To lend awhile the pleasant plant
 That graced my garden-ground;
And those, the dearest to my heart,
 Christ hath the fairest found.