p. 13 | To a Missionary by E. L. A. C.

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 10, 1903

To a Missionary

By E. L. A. C.

HAST thou considered well thy purposes? Art sure thou knowest what ’twill be To give up all,—thy friends, thy country, home, All that is dear and doth make sweet to thee The cup of life? Canst thou resist their tears Who bid thee go, and yet would have thee stay? Canst unresentingly endure the scorn Of those who little know, and nothing care About the wanderings of Israel? Canst go, and not “look back”?

And O, wilt thou In that dark, foreign land, use all thy strength To gather those who crucified the Lord? And when they turn their back and laugh at thee, Wilt thou, e’en then, preach Jesus unto them?

And when thou weary art, and sad, and faint, Wilt thou, e’en then, be sure and never yield Or be discouraged? Say, wilt thou submit When laid upon a feverish couch, and none Is there to wet thy burning lips? or, when Thy weak and wandering reason can not find The promises of God, to read them fresh From the blest volume where they all are writ?

And when an awful chill comes over thee, And thou dost think, This must be death, canst thou Endure it, if no friend is nigh to pray That God would take thy spirit to himself?

And canst thou then, for want of friendly hand To do it for thee, thy own finger put Upon thy failing eyes? And canst thou die?

Aye, die, while yet the seed which, weeping, thou Hast sown at noon, and not withheld at eve, Lies dormant, and seems perished in the dust?

Hast thou considered all these sorrows—yea, And more, a thousand more, and greater still? And dost thou bid them welcome all? Then go. Go—and thy God be with thee unto death. Yes, go—and thou shalt know far more of bliss Than we who sit at home, and bless ourselves That we have heard of God, and idly wish Others might know the Way, the Truth, the Life.

Go to thy labors—to thy grave. Thy race, It must be swift; but there’s a prize to win— The battle is soon over, and a crown Of glory is laid up for thee in heaven. —E. L. A. C., in The Boston Recorder, 1839.