They Remembered Not His Hand by Alexander Ritchie

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Aug 10, 1911

“They Remembered Not His Hand”

By Alexander Ritchie

ALEXANDER RITCHIE

My God, how glad thou makest me, Whene’er thy Holy Word I take, To learn of earth’s nativity, The story true thy Spirit spake!

I see the mighty orb of day Rejoice each morn to run his race; The moon, that nightly wends its way, Across the trackless realms of space.

I see the stars, whose diamond rays Bedeck the sable crown of night; The clouds, that sail their windy ways, And meteors flashing fiery light.

I hear the thunder’s solemn peal, When lightnings give the signal flash; The earthquake makes the earth to reel, And seashores feel the ocean’s lash.

And as I look and hear and feel, I long to read the mystery, To know the “cause”—undo the seal That holds the cosmic history.

I search the scrolls of ancient lore, The treasures of the Magian days, To find among their classic store The origin of nature’s ways.

I urge my quest through endless rows Of volumes modern, up-to-date; I scan their theoretic prose, But still an explanation wait.

And then, awearyed with my quest Among the myriad words of men, I fly, like Noah’s dove, to rest Within the Ark of Truth again,—

Thy Holy Word,—which safely keeps Its tenants in thy perfect peace While tossing on life’s stormy deeps; ’Tis there my doubts and wanderings cease.

There, by the light of heavenly rays Which shine divinely clear and fair, In David’s God-breathed roundelays I find the wondrous secret—there.

’Twas not by “means” of men’s design That sun and moon and stars appeared; But earth and sea, with plant and vine, Were by a glorious hand upreared.

His hand spread out the molten sky, His fingers wove Orion’s bands, His fists the mightiest winds defy, And oceans lie within his hands.

And yet, though vast his heavenly dower Of might, and skill, and wisdom be, His love’s as great as all his power, And brought him down to Calvary.

Those glorious hands that made the sun, The moon, the stars, the ground I tread, When sin had left me lost, undone, Were bruised and mangled in my stead.

O wondrous thought, beyond our ken! The Lord of hosts by “dogs” assailed; O love beyond both tongue and pen! The hands that guide the planets—nailed.

But now those hands, which then were tied, Are stronger than they were before; For Christ the Lord is glorified; He lives to taste of death no more!

And on those wounded, tender palms Are graven deep the names of those Who seek from sin and its alarms, Within the Saviour’s arms, repose.

And when the tempted saint would drown, And feels he can not longer stand, He is “not utterly cast down;” The Lord upholds him with his hand.

And when affliction dims my sight, And I am nearing Death’s dark land, “The entrance of thy Word gives light,” For all “my times are in thy hand.”

O Lord, upon my sinful heart Display thy fingers’ matchless skill, Of thine own nature make me part, And in me all thy law fulfil.

Then when thy perfect church shall be “A crown of glory in thy hand,” “A royal diadem” for thee, O, may I then before thee stand!

“They Remembered Not His Hand”¹

“They Remembered Not His Hand”