The Presence of Christ
By Margaret E. Sangster
HERE in my workshop, where I toil
Till the head and hands are well-nigh spent;
Out on the road, where dust and soil
Fall thick on garments worn and rent;
Or in the kitchen, where I bake
The bread the little children eat—
He comes; his hand of strength I take,
And every homely task grows sweet. Sometimes in halls of feasting rare,
With lamps and scent of flowers in bloom,
Among brave men and women fair,
He enters, blessing all the room.
I hear the music of his voice
In tones familiar to my ear,
And straightway, swift, my thoughts rejoice,
For consciously I feel him near. I sit among the books I love,
Or bend above life's dearest Book.
Softer than wing of whitest dove,
Kinder than friend's most welcome look,
He broods upon the page I read;
He tells me he is at my side.
Even here he gives what most I need,
And stays by me, my blessed Guide. The tempter dares an evil spell
To weave around my wayward mood;
His hateful minions fain would dwell
With me in desert solitude;
But, ere their craft can drag me down,
One strong to save defeats their end,—
One, once who wore hate's thorny crown,—
One, evermore my deathless friend. O Master! while the moments drift
So fast away, till night draw near,
Be with me still, that I may lift
Unceasingly my song of cheer.
I would not have an hour apart
From thee, sweet Lover, matchless King,
Abide with me. Take thou my heart:
Low at thy feet myself I fling.
—Margaret E. Sangster.