Matt. viii. 20.
For Him the
wilderness did not sing,
Nor
the desolate place rejoice--
Nor as the rose did
the desert bloom,
Nor
the wastes lift up their voice.
The glory of
Lebanon was not there,
Nor
the shittah nor myrtle sweet;
Nor was the place
of His sojourning fair,
Nor
glorious the place of His feet.
Through the great
and terrible waste He trod,
Where
water springs were none--
In the weary desert
alone with God,
And
His heritage God alone.
No way in the
desert prepared for Him,
Nor
the mountains and hill made low-
Nor the crooked
straight, nor the rough ways plain,
Where
His pilgrim feet must go.
O Father, Thy care
is not to make
The
desert a waste no more,
But to keep our
feet lest we lose the track
Where
His feet went before.
Thou carest not
that the rose should bloom,
Nor
the myrtle where we must tread;
Nor to make the fir
and the cedar tree
A
shadow above our head.
But Thou carest
that through the golden street
We
walk in the light above,
That we sit in His
shadow with great delight,
And
feed on the fruit of His love.
Thou carest that in
the pastures green,
Where
the life eternal flows,
In the midst of the
paradise of our God,
We
should find our deep repose.
Thou carest not to
give desert songs
Where
through the wilds we roam,
But a golden Psalm
hast Thou put in our mouths
To
sing in our Father's Home.
Whilst yet we walk
through the weary land,
Where
we bear the outcast name,
Where the foxes
have holes, and the birds have nests,
And
our Lord the cross of shame,
Apart from all in
the joy we dwell
Which
the eye hath never seen--
'Tis a dry and a
thirsty land below,
But
there the fields are green.
Where He is no more
the outcast Man,
But
the Lamb whom all adore,
There is now the
place of our joy and song,
And
shall be for evermore.
F. M.
