The Faith of Our Fathers.
By Francis S. Borton
THERE was a time, I've heard the fathers tell,
Ere pagan hades took the place of hell,
When great Jehovah sat upon the throne,
And “Yahweh” was a thing as yet unknown: When “higher critics” had not nicked the sword
Of the thrice-piercing, sundering, flashing Word;
When sin was black as midnight, hell no dream,
And Jesus Christ the preacher's fruitful theme: When purple robes could not excuse the guilt
Of him for whom the blood of Christ was split;
When death and Judgment did not cause a smile,
Nor Christians show the world the “latest style.” Plain churches held the plain-clad people then,
Where God's whole message was proclaimed by men
Anointed, filled with that strange power of speech
That all the modern schools can never teach. Then power divine, resistless, fell from heaven;
Then citadels of sin were shattered, riven;
From heart to heart the electric current went,
As preachers, prophet-like, bade men repent. Through all the reverent throng God's power swept,
Till pardoned sinners knew their Lord and wept;
Then shouts of victory rose. 'Twas heavenly sweet,
As scores knelt lovingly at Jesus' feet,
Until the place grew luminous, as the Lord
Stood in their midst and feasted at their board! Our fathers tell us stories such as these,
Of times when men found pardon on their knees;
When Methodists had little worldly gear,
But much of Christian zeal and godly fear; Their battle cry in bygone days a hymn,
When God still dwelt between the cherubim;
His own “evangelist” each preacher, then,
With faith in God, and not in far-fetched men. We are our fathers' children, but to-day
From such “old paths” we've strayed so far away;
We trust in numbers and an empty ark;
Our church has now become a shining mark,
All over gilded with our own cheap dross,
Our seeming gain, for us, eternal loss. What though our altars shine with burnished gold,
No flame is there, but ashes dead and cold;
Though rich the sacrifice, as times require,
No well-pleased God responds in Carmel fire. We gild the fringes of the word of God,
But leave the paths of old our fathers trod;
We number Israel oft in proud array,
Heedless of what befell in David's day. And for the law, 'mid flame and thunder given,
When cloud-wrapped Sinai trembled, anguish-riven,
We have a critic credence nowadays,
And find with German doubters newer ways. Church of our fathers, heritage of years
Of toil and triumph, shining with the tears
Of saints triumphant, who in that old time,
Conquering, unconquerable, with faith sublime, Jeweled with victories thy queenly brow,
God ever calls and loves thee, calls thee now:
“Come back, my daughter, never more to roam
Far from thy Father's love and far from home; “Back to the vows that knit thee to my side;
Back from thy wandering through the cold world wide,
With loving pity, pitying love, I call—
Come home, and find in me thine all in all.” —Francis S. Borton, D. D., in the Christian Advocate.