Poem January 18, 1913 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel.]

"KNOCKING."

KATHARINE T. PORTER.

I used to knock with face half turned away
From there where I would entrance find; had eyes
Alone for all the world did think and say;
Knocked feebly at the door; expressed surprise
It ope'd not to my call,—that call so faint and low
I scarce heard it myself,—the world engrossed me so.

As time went on the din of earth
Oppressed my spirit sore—it seemed so cold
This world which once for me was filled with mirth—
And peace was more to be desired than gold!
And then I knocked again, with piteous cry and wild:
"O Father, Father, hear me! Open to Thy child!"

And still the door was closed to me, till prayer
Whole-hearted, pure, in humble trust arose
From my still heart, and silenced fear and care
In childlike peace—that peace alone which knows
That it the pleasure of our heavenly Father is
Freely to give the kingdom to each child of His.

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Editorial
"COME UNTO ME."
January 18, 1913
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