His Own are Fed

KATHERINE J. SMITH.

To-day, from far Tiberian coast.
He whom the night-bound fishers greet,
Incarnate in Life's holy morn,
Calls thro' the Christ-illumined dawn,
My children, have ye meat?

Who hears the calling Paraclete,
Will leave his knotted net behind,
Nor count the leagues of sin-swept sea;
But here, in Truth's immensity,
Cast deep, and he shall find.

Come, hungered, heart-worn, restless child.
Brush from thy lips the acrid ash,
Cease toil, and plea, and olden rage,
Leave to the sea its grudging wage,
Its hurricane and crash.

Seek not the mortal recompense,
For work imprest by heav'nly sign,
Come and divide Life's quick'ning bread—
From Love's right hand His own are fed—
Beloved, come and dine.