GLIMPSE OF THE ANGEL'S RECORD.
“Man looketh on the outward appearance; but God looketh on the heart.” 1 Sam. 16:7. “'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to Heaven.”—YOUNG. How happy, lovely, glorious, blest,
Of human life the Eden dawn!
While feet of innocence still pressed
The virgin soil of Paradise. How sad, how fearful, wretched, lost,
When, tempted, sin seduced, man fell;
With exile, death—the bitter cost—
Earth, cursed with sin, his days must tell.
So soon the shouting angel choir
Must heavenward fly with notes of woe,
Grieved that the unstained record there
The blot of sin and death must show. Dark and more dark the moral night,
Man's devious way now shadowed o'er;
While farther from the heavenly light
His erring footsteps wandered more.
Yet God, all loving, watched him still,
Though veiled his face to mortal eyes;
Betimes, in dreams revealed his will,
And treasured each repentant sigh.
The angel's record darkly gloomed
With sin's vile traces, stained with blood,
Man's pathway, sorrowing to the tomb,
So little knew of wise and good. The angel scribe, still faithful, traced,
Or glad or grieved, the deathless page;
In God's own book the record placed
Of every clime, of every age.
Man's guardian watcher, hovering near,
His inner life he read unseen,
And oft, as things to man appear
Seldom to God and angels seem. What varied scenes arise to view!
As we time's tireless rounds pursue.
In princely halls a festal scene—
Throne dazzling o'er a wondering throng;
Mid royal purple, golden sheen,
Rang loud acclaims of praise and song.
A conqueror, wreathed in laurel crown,
Drank long the meed of sweet applause;
The crowd, in worship bowing down,
Shouted, “Long live the hero brave!
Immortal honors crown thy name,
Which history's page shall proudly bear;
Ten thousand foemen hast thou slain,
Their lands and treasures all thine own.”
So sang the crowd, so flattery paid
The servile debt, ambition's due;
While far above the angel stood,
From truth's unclouded hight to view.
He saw, beneath that laurel crown,
Selfish ambition, proudly vain;
And, on that gold-encircled palm,
Of brother's blood the cruel stain.
Nor need delay his truthful pen
The victor's name with blood to trace.
“Though honored, worshiped thus by men,
Thou murderer hast in Heaven no place.” Then quickly sought his angel eye
A lovelier sight, a dearer theme;
And to the gory fields did fly,
Where dead and dying still were seen.
He noted there, unseen by man,
The feet of mercy—hands of love,
All swift to bear the soothing balm,
And point the parting soul above.
Unsought was wealth, unthought of, fame;
Unselfish love—unwearied toil,
Relieving sorrow, want, and pain,
Illumed the darkly crimsoned soil.
The benefactor meekly heard
The dying blessing on his head,
While on the angel's book appeared
The words all traced in glorious light. In olden days, in Israel's land,
When priest and scribe, vain glorious, made
Their ample offerings, costly, grand,
In name for God, for man displayed—
A widow came, thin clad and poor, Threw in two mites—she had no more,
Though full her heart of heavenly love.
The eye of priest was dark with scorn;
Still with his lips to God he prayed;—
The Saviour to his followers turned,
And these immortal words he said—
“Verily, this widow giveth more
Than all these lords of wealth have given;”
The angel scribe repeats it o'er—
Amen! the record stood in Heaven,
And often since “the widow's mite,”
In Heaven's eternal trying scale,
Has many a golden dower outweighed,
Which trumpet sound to man displayed. While near, the boasting Pharisee,
Self-righteous, prayed so long and loud—
The publican, on bended knee,
In true repentance deeply sighed,
“O God, be merciful to me!”
And Heaven pronounced him justified.
Thus, often, while the high-plumed prayer,
Without the buoyant wing of love,
Is only wasted on the air,
Unheard, unanswered from above,
A little artless, trusting child,
All Heaven has bowed in loving will,
Praying in accents lowly,
“My dearest Father, love me still.” Behold! a gorgeous, golden throne—
A sceptered lord of many a realm;
Submissive millions ready own
His word as law, his wish their will.
And many a noble, generous deed,
Perhaps has graced his regal power;
The slave oppressed, he may have freed,
And kindly dealt with rich and poor;
Then well may fame delight to twine
Her loveliest garland for his brow,
If wealth and power with goodness shine,
So rare this triple crown is worn.
On history's fairest page shall shine,
The name earth honors, loves the best,
And after death, almost divine,
His virtues grow, his faults suppressed. But when immortal he shall rise,
Admitted to the mansions blest,
The angel record meets his eyes,—
His earthly name in Heaven undressed,—
Uncrowned, untitled, only bright
With simple deeds of goodness done;
These radiant glow'd in Heaven's pure light,
All else with earthly dross was gone,
And, in his heavenly diadem,
’Mid pearls of love, not one star more,
For all the stars on earth he wore.
More strange than all—beside his name—
Scores of his subjects there enrolled,
Of equal rank!—or higher still!—
Whose deeds on earth were never told!
Of humble name, of lowly walk,
Earth's sorrowing ones they ever knew;
Knew well of Jesus' love to talk,
And, in his name, all good to do.
Some faithful heralds of the cross,
Who sought men's dying souls to bless,
Whose holy lives continual taught
The way of Heaven is righteousness.
Some, busier still, the record said,
Love's unseen ministries dispensed,
Smiles for the sad, for hungry, bread,
On mercy's errands tireless sped.
Earth's angels they, whose gentle lives
Flow out to gladden everywhere,
As silent dew the earth revives,
And wakes sweet fragrance in the flowers.
While many a noble, grand resolve,
Awaiting time, a way is given;
The constant, trickling drops of love
Have filled a crystal cup in Heaven.
Others to feast is love's best feast,
Unheeding what reward may be;
What ye have done to lowest, least—
The angel writes—“ye've done to me.”
Some, loving well, have served as well,
Bearing affliction's chastening rod;
In pain and sorrow whispering still,
Thy will, not mine, be done, O God;
Others discerned the midnight gloom,
Which ignorance spreads o'er mind and soul;
Toiled hard the mines of truth to find,
Her priceless treasures to unfold. Long was the list—the page was bright—
So many faithful ones inscribed,
Whose faults were hid in virtue's light,
So much of Heaven on earth imbibed. Not glad the angel scribe must write
The sorrowing list of folly, crime;
The shade of sin's dark, starless night,
Still hanging o'er the home of time;
Of tyrant rule, whose iron hand
Has forged oppression's cruel chain,
Wide scattering sorrow o'er the land,
And chilling fear, and want, and pain;
Of power that crushed the trembling weak,
Extorting unrewarded toil,
Where torn affection hopeless weeps
Such bitter tears as curse the soil.
For God doth surely hear the cry
Of helpless, unrequited wrong;
The fearful record placed on high,
Will pierce at last the heart of stone,
Of gilded traitors who, to raise
The mighty self one little notch,
A nation's life and honor pays,
Oh Heaven! what a fearful price!
But time would fail, e'en brief to scan
The angel's record—long as time;
Each deed, each word, each thought of man,
His works of love, his follies, crimes,
Accomplished deeds, and deeds designed,
All faithful, truthful, entered there. But on that sin-bedarkened page,
None darker seemed than envy’s deeds;
Abhorred on earth—engine most vile,
To crush man's joys on which to feed,
Base “conscious poverty of soul,”
That worth in others cannot bear,
But with polluting, withering touch,
Would wrench the crown it cannot wear.
Thirsting for praise, he strives to rob
True worth of praise and honor just;
Those rising glorious fame's fair lights,