THE PRAYER OF THE CHURCH.
By Geo. E. Price
How long, O pitying Jesus, must I wait
For Thee to come and take me home with Thee?
The anguish of delay I would relate,
An humble suppliant on bended knee.
Haste, haste, from earthly spot my soul to free;
From proud exultant foes that press me sore.
Thy face, long lost, could I but once more see,
And at Thy holy feet my homage pour,
These miseries of my mortal lot could never vex me more. The long, drear years upon my memory press,
Years that my nearing bridal may not drown.
The world so long has smiled at my distress,
Its ear has grown accustomed to my moan;
It knows no hope, no pleasure but its own,
And through the ages in its pride of power
My hope, my joy, my life it did repress,
With force and tortures varied to the hour;
And now its final fiercest struggles o’er me lower. Near threescore years ago, before my eyes,
Enraptured, rose Thy glorious morning star.
Desire hailed it as Thyself, the prize
That Hope has ever pictured from afar;
But Disappointment did that promise mar,
For tardy Time still turned his weary wheel,
While dark Despair was ever at my ear
The ribald jeers of a pert world to seal,
While fainting Hope no more the future dare reveal. But duties new upon my vision rose,
Duties neglected and forgotten long;
These ’twixt myself and Thee would interpose
To be performed before the mocking throng.
I dare not face Thy throne with such a wrong
Staining my garments; but Thy sacred Word
Performing, straight my soul grew strong;
And in my ear Thy promise sweet I heard,
Which every halting purpose of my spirit stirred. “Hold fast the faith; perform the daily task,
And herald through the world My coming reign.
To all, the terrors of that day unmask,
And bid them wash their robes from every stain.
The labor of thy love shall not be vain,
For I shall keep thee from temptation’s hour.
The victor’s crown shall thy devotion gain,
When on the world, with Pentecostal power,
The blessings of the closing Gospel thou shalt shower.” I took Thy Word and hasted with the work;
And o’er this land Thy message did proclaim.
The perils of my task I did not shirk,
Thou knowest, for Thy trials were the same.
Have I not preached the message in Thy name?
O Saviour, why delay Thy coming more?
Have not our souls sufficient borne the flame
To mirror back the image we adore,
Or must I take this Word to every heathen shore? Awake, my sluggish soul! Hark to the din
Re-echoing from the confines of the world!
The nations now with angry words begin
An empire to despoil; and each has hurled
The gauntlet down, but still with banner furled
She clasps her own and eyes her neighbor’s prize.
Ere this, why has the crimson tide not swirled
Above their heads, commingled with the cries
With which an aged, sleeping empire wakes and dies? But not alone the cradle of the morning
Resounds with millions mustering for the fight;
Each nation is her ancient home adorning
With furbished sword and buckler polished bright;
My soul with horror sickens at the sight.
How long thus on each other shall they glare
In deadly hate, forgetful of Thy might,
Ere Ruin shall his cursed trumpet blare?
Hast Thou forbid the conflict that they still forbear? Thy work I shall complete, till every nation
Has heard this Gospel in its purity.
The mighty may in rage and desperation
Unfurl their banners in grim majesty;
The desert savage may before them flee;
The dying nations may before them fall;
But I shall labor in security;
Tho distant mutterings may the soul appal,
They do but clear a path for me to speak to all. But must I wait till all these lands are pulsing,
With this vain culture mortals now revere,
While every sin this modern world convulsing
Echoes with tenfold clangor in my ear,
And worse their last state than their first appear?
Must all the world one homogeneous mass
Become, grown prouder with each passing year,
And every trait resembling Thee, alas,
Blighted with luxury as by the fire the grass? E’en that blest home of freedom in the West,
Where first my right to worship was allowed,
Has joined my ancient foes in the request
That I must worship as the fickle crowd.
My children there have grown as vain and proud
As she who scourged me in the long ago.
The dazzling dreams of science them becloud,
And color all the future with their glow,
Till on Thy message all their scorn they now bestow. I can not wait so long, My Bridegroom dearest.
O hasten to fulfil Thy marriage vows!
So long hast Thou now tarried, that the clearest
Tokens of Thine approach, are to my foes
Morsels of sweet on which their mocking grows;
Grim specters of their rage before me glower
Straining to break the leash Thy promise throws
About their steps to keep me from their power.
O Saviour, shorten soon this darkly trying hour. Tracadie, N. B., Canada. GEO. E. PRICE.