p. 1 | His Loving-Kindness by W. B. Robertson

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 8, 1915

His Loving-Kindness

By W. B. Robertson

When evening choirs the praises hymned In Zion’s courts of old, The high priest walked his rounds and trimmed The shining lamps of gold; And if, perchance, some flame burned low, With fresh oil vainly drenched, He cleansed it from its socket, so The smoking flax was quenched.

But Thou who walkest, Priest Most High, Thy golden lamps among, What things are weak and near to die Thou makest fresh and strong; Thou breathest on the trembling spark, That else must soon expire, And swift it shoots up through the dark, A brilliant spear of fire.

The shepherd that to stream and shade Withdrew his flock at noon, On reedy stop soft music made In many a pastoral tune; And if, perchance, the reed were crushed, It could not more be used, Its mellow music marred and hushed, He brake it when so bruised.

But Thou, Good Shepherd, who dost feed Thy flock in pastures green, Thou dost not break the bruised reed That sorely crushed hath been; The heart that dumb in anguish lies, Or yields but notes of woe, Thou dost retune to harmonies More rich than angels know.

— W. B. Robertson.