Poems (Shipton)/The Wounded Soldier

by Anna Shipton

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

The soul of the wounded crieth out: yet God layeth not folly to them."—Job xxiv. 12.

It was the hour of battle,
 No human eye looked on;
Angels and devils, marvel;
 A victory is won!

There is a moan of anguish,
 A warrior lies low;
A poisoned shaft is proving
 The malice of the foe.

In the still midnight hour
 No other sound is heard;
The weary hands fall helpless
 That wielded well the sword.

There is no song of triumph,
 And none the chaplet twine,
O weak and wounded soldier,
 For that pale brow of thine.

Hath earth no balm to bring him?
 Hath love no word to speak,
As in the dust he lieth,
 With heart so nigh to break?

For fierce the foe that found him,
 (And who his power can scan?)
Oh, is there none to succor
 That sad and lonely man?

Not earth, with all its glories
 Could solace now impart;
Nor earthly love, the dearest,
 Uphold that sinking heart.

But see! the Man of Sorrows
 Comes where His soldier lies;
He marks the lip that quivers
 In untold agonies.

Say, doth He bring him fetters,
 Or comes He to upbraid?
Nay! to the rest that fails not
 He draws the drooping head.

And in that deep, deep silence
 The gaping wounds are bound,
With touch so soft and gentle—
 Hush! it is holy ground.

O Christ! Thy tender pity
 For every pang I see;
Each sob of pain is numbered,
 And counted as for Thee.

Yea, closer, and yet closer,
 Thy wounded one is prest;
And human woes are whispered
 Upon a human breast.

Then in the solemn silence
 I hear the whisper sweet,
"Fear not, My wounded soldier;
 Behold My hands and feet!"
·····
The fever dream is over;
 The tearless eyes can weep;
And He, whose arms enfold him,
 Gives His beloved sleep.

Rest, rest, O wounded soldier!
 Distrust thy Lord no more;
And think not strange the battle
 Thy Captain fought before.

He knows thy fierce accuser;
 Thou shalt not fall nor yield;
Hold fast thy blood-red banner,
 Thy bright sword, and thy shield.

Behold thy strength in Jesus;
 Believe thy Brother nigh,
Whose heart in love o'erfloweth
 With tenderest sympathy.

Thou hast no pain He feels not,
 No pang He cannot share;
And when the fight was hottest,
 Deliverance was near.

He kept thee in the conflict;
 His shield was o'er thee thrown;
A Conqueror ne'er defeated,
 Thy battle was His own.

Rest in His love, and fear not;
 The victory is won.
O weak and wounded soldier,
 Thy Lord hath said, "Well done!"