My Sanctuary by Arthur W. Spaulding

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Mar 14, 1912

My Sanctuary

By Arthur W. Spaulding

ARTHUR W. SPAULDING

I do not find the world a place of love; For every man goes barbed with private rights: Who must, he parries; and who can, he smites; The trodden murmur, and the headlong shove; And, world-forgetful, if some urchin sing, There lights upon him wrath of priest or king.

Through haunts of fear and misery I move. The nightmare of the sodden faces frights, While lust blots o’er the face of pure delights; And O, the world, it sorely lacks for love! And I, if I must strive that lack to fill, Where shall I find the balm to cure the ill?

The crowd are not awaiting love from me: They know not any love, and count them lies,— The tales of cheer, the deeds of sacrifice; And only looks of moping unbelief I see. But O, their downcast eyes are never drawn above! They do not know my secret place of love.

Within the veil that balks the ribald gaze There lies the sanctuary of my heart; And they who minister with me in part Delight to serve within that holy place. For not alone for us is censer waved: We serve that all the world, perchance, be saved.

An outer and an inner shrine are there: The first, our sacred common minster place; The second, where we see our Father’s face. The first is home; the next, the place of prayer. And here, the sacred fire shall ever flame; And there, we hide our face before the Name.

And O, when heart is numb and hands grow cold Against the frozen anguish that we move, How sweet to know the great rebirth of love Awaits me there behind the curtain’s fold! And, as a pleader for the world’s great woe, Within my sanctuary as a priest I go.