THE MASTER'S WORK

J. W. DEANE

My Master's work would not be done
Should my hand slack, or fail my feet
Love's calls to heed, His errands run;
On should I halt with message sweet
To hungering hearts and souls downcast,
Their wounds to stanch, their ills to mend,
Nor drop Love's blessings sure and fast
And be to them who need a friend.

Before me lay those luring ways
That pleasant seemed, by bowers girt,
And following on, lo many days,
My bruised limbs were yet more hurt
By thorns concealed and nettled leaves,
By flints o'ergrown where waved the grass,—
Through deadly fens, where poison weaves
And bones are strewn, I sought to pass.
Upon that way, when burned my heart
Because no joy or pleasure stayed,
Through blinded eyes my tears would start
And sometimes I was sore afraid;
And once, when spent and downed by fear,
When quaked my soul at lightest word,
Somehow my vision grew full clear,
And lo the Master spoke! I heard.

No strange voice rang with new command,
I'd heard it oft but would not heed;
And then he took me by the hand
And back to Love and joy did lead;
I felt the imprint of the nails
That through it pierced, when high he hung,
When malefactors hushed their wails—
But, oh, the sweetness from his tongue!

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