Mine Own: His Own by A. W. SPAULDING

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 8, 1910

Mine Own: His Own

By A. W. SPAULDING

A. W. SPAULDING

Down from the mountain’s top I swing, And the trail is perilous steep. To the rock’s sheer face sometimes I cling, Sometimes by the precipice creep. The way is stony, and thorny, and rough, Yet from not a peril I quail; For to me the gladdening thought is enough: I go to mine own in the vale.

I have toiled all day in a human lair, Where the wolf might seek his own; I have prayed where strange was the voice of prayer, I have stood for my God alone. But now I turn toward my home of rest, And my weary foot springs free; For though a belated, a longed-for guest, Mine own will welcome me.

There are eyes that watch ’neath a shading hand To tell when I draw near To the firelit circle, my little band, Who are saying, “He’s almost here.” And I mind not the way that is rough and steep, And I pause not for brier or stone; For I feel my heart within me leap To the welcome of mine own.

But One there was who came to his own,— Ah, the way was cruel hard, And the path was one he must tread alone, Where none could guide or guard. Far down in the vale he came from above To cast with his own his lot; He came to his own with a voice of love,— And his own received him not.

He had lived his life in a home of rest, In the light of his Father’s smile, And he left his Father’s home on the quest To seek his brothers vile. They saw him coming across their lands, And they scowled their murderous hate, And they crushed out his life with their bloody hands As he stepped within their gate.

His own?—Yea, his own. Their door swung wide, But not for him it turned; Afar to strangers their voices cried, But him, their Own, they spurned. The heart that was yearning for them was burst; The joy that was springing, died; His people their Own esteemed accursed; Their Own they crucified.

Naples, N. C.