YE DID IT NOT TO ME

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Dec 19, 1871

YE DID IT NOT TO ME.

I sat and gazed upon my sunny home; All pleasant things were there. Bright things to look at, and sweet, soothing sounds, That came and went upon the perfumed air. The sunbeams glanced and quivered Through the many colored pane, And the marble floor at the open door, Mirrored it back again. The flowers blushed in beauty, The birds sang forth their glee, I looked, and listened, and I thanked my Father That it was all for me.

And then I thought of One who had been here, In days of yore, Walking wearily on the earth he made, The Son of Man, and yet the Son of God, despised and poor. I thought of him when first his infant form Needed a resting place and there was none. The King of Heaven was waiting to be housed; Earth’s dwellings had no room. I thought of him upon the mountain side, When all night long The silent stars looked down upon his loneliness; For Jesus had no home.

I thought and thought until my gushing heart Groaned forth its longings: Oh! had I been there, What tender ministry, what fostering care Wouldst thou have known, Thou blessed one! What kindly words! What thoughts and deeds of love! The hot tears gathered fast; I laid me down and wept.

Was it a breeze that came into the room So like a voice? That came quite close unto my burning brow, And whispered, “Why not now?” It came again. I brushed the tears away, And as I bent my head down very low, I thought I heard him say, “But why not now?”

There is a door-way in a narrow street, And close beside that door a broken stair, And then a low dark room; The room is bare; But in a corner lies A wornout form upon a hard straw bed, No pillow underneath his aching head, A face worn wan with suffering, and a hand Scarce strong enough to reach the small dry crust That lies upon the chair. Go in for I am there; I have been waiting wearily in that cold room, Waiting long, lonely hours, Waiting for thee to come.

There is a low, quiet corner in a green churchyard, Where deep, sad, shadows lie; And sound of passing feet goes seldom by— I want thee there. In that still place, beside a new-made grave, A woman has been weeping all day long; None marked her when she sate, And now ’tis getting late And stars are coming out, Beautiful stars, my stars, That used to gaze on me at Olivet; The chill night dews are creeping through her frame, She dares not venture back from where she came; She needs a home; I called for thee and waited, But thou didst not come; I want thy pitying tears that fell just now Upon the jeweled slab, to fall upon her cheek; For tears can speak; Lay the warm hand upon the fainting one, And leave me not to watch and weep alone.

There is one seated near an open door, Where, to and fro all through the busy day, The sorrowing and the poor Have found their weary way; And now for very weariness His eyes are closed, Kind, earnest eyes that have looked lovingly On many a ghastly spectacle of woe, Looked into depths where loathsome miseries lie, And never wept mere idle sympathy; That heavy hand has fallen by his side, The strong, brave hand That waited my command, And then did deadly battle with the foe, That never flinched from any task To which I called; Were the way smooth or rough, My bidding was enough. Go in and look; For tears have dropped upon the open book. That heart is burdened— Burdened for my sake; Thou in thy thoughtless ease wilt let it break.

’Twas on a summer’s day, long years ago, I called two willing servants to my feet. I took them by the hand and said to each, I shed my blood for thee; Lovest thou me? And then I gave him work, Large work within my fold; He had no earthly store, Wherewith to feed my poor. It mattered not. I’d given thee my gold; Where is it now? Look at that pallid brow Sunk in its weary sleep; The furrows are too deep, They tell the tale of many an anxious grief, Not his, but mine.

Whence comes the wasting of that haggard cheek? The guilt is thine. He gave me all his time, and strength, and health; I took it, and then asked thee for thy wealth, Thy given wealth! asked that it might be free, Held in thine open hand for him and me. Then came the years of conflict and of toil, The days of labor and the nights of prayer, Souls perishing in sin, Few hands to fetch them in, The hungry to be fed, The naked to be clothed, The outcast and the poor, Gathered about my door. I wanted money, and I wanted bread; I wanted all that willing hands could do; I wanted the quick ear and ready eye, Aye, and the deep, true soul of sympathy; I wanted help, and then I called for thee, I called and waited, and then I called again; Oh! could it be that I should call in vain? I called and waited, and thou didst not come.

I tried to hold my breath and hear Him speak; But it was as though this throbbing heart must break. I could not lift my head, I could not sigh, The crimson shame had burnt into my cheek, I had no tears, the very fount was dry. Oh! it was long, I could not tell how long, That strange, cold stillness, But I felt that He was waiting there, Waiting for me to speak. I knelt upon the floor, and breathed His name; Then struggling one by one the faint words come: Jesus I thought I loved thee. I remember well That day when thou didst hold My trembling fingers in thy pierced hand, And take me for thine own, And I did love thee. This poor heart beat true. It was no fancied echo, when the voice That spoke thee mine, Responded, “I am thine.”

But O, my Master! can I dare to tell, Thy faithless child has loved thy gifts too well? I looked on all things beautiful and rare, Looked on earth’s flowers, And thought them very fair; I hid me from the rude and vulgar throng, And hoped it was thy will, That I might turn away from common men, And love thee still. I dwelt among the pleasant sounds of life; I did not like the turmoil and the strife, To come too near. And thou wast in the thickest battle tide, When thou didst call thy servant to thy side; But I was too far off, And so I did not hear.

My Lord, I will come nearer. I will take my seat Close at thy feet. I will come down where the gray shadows lie, And there I’ll listen, listen every day To hear thy voice. It may be I must take a lower place, But let me have the shining of thy face; It may be I must seek a humbler home, Let it be one where thou wilt often come. Its door shall be the later open for thee, And for the needy ones who claim An interest in thy name; And I will stand and watch, and wait to greet The first, faint echoes of Thy coming feet. —Selected for Review.