THE GUEST by Mary Townley

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 9, 1876

THE GUEST.

By Mary Townley

The hearth was cold, the lamp burned dim, Round my low cot the storm beat wild; And through the long hours of the night My heart cried like a hungry child.

I cried, and would not be appeased; My tired head drooped upon my breast, Whose cruel wound and cheerless void Mocked weary nature's hopeless guest.

And all the while One stood without Who bore the rude and bitter blast, And knocked, and waited at my door; My dull ear caught the sound at last.

Who seeks me at this lonely hour? “Is it a wanderer unhoused— My neighbor, worn, and faint, and cold?” Pity and shame my spirit roused.

I opened; ere my lips could frame The words of welcome to my Guest, “My child,” he said; “my King!” I cried, And quivering sobs told all the rest.

My Lord came in and shut the door; A blessed silence filled the place, While, through my blinding tears, I felt The tender chiding of his face.

He needed not that I should speak; I knew not if he spoke at all; But ere the morn came fair and still My soul grew strong to break her thrall.

He soothed me, cheered me, drew me near To rest on his own patient heart; The sacred fellowship of pain Has taught me how to bear my part. —Mary Townley.