“WHAT THOU GIVEST THEM THEY GATHER.”
By Hope Onslow
ALL the little birds about,
Flying in, and flying out,
In the calm or stormy weather,
Chirping cheerily and sweet,
Never lack for food to eat.
How they sing and plume the feather!
What Thou givest them, kind Father
With a song of thanks, they gather. Tho they neither sow nor reap,
Have no granary to keep,
Whether it is dark, or whether
It is bright, they chirp and trill,
Trusting in the all-wise will,
That hath failed the faithful never.
Looking up to Thee, great Father,
What Thou givest them, they gather. What Thou givest wide and free,
With unstinted ministry,
Scattering over wood and heather,
For the farmer’s open furrow,
For the need of lark and sparrow,
Seed to-day, and for to-morrow
Hope, that none may sit in sorrow,
Shaking heaven’s table-cover
For all things that ’neath it hover,
So Thou feedest all, O Father,
Only bidding us to gather. But the body’s more than meat,
And the life than what we eat,
And for that implanted nature
In the human soul within,
Washed and saved and cleansed from sin,—
That renewed and heavenly creature,
In thine image made to shine,
With Thy holiness divine,
Dost Thou that remember ever,
’Mid the bright or cloudy weather?
And hast Thou for that, O Father!
Given food that we must gather? Ah, shall He who feeds the whole,
Have no manna for the soul,
In the bright or cloudy weather?
All things else are but the token
Of the heavenly bread that’s broken,
And are only seal and sign
Of his beautiful design.
Trust, like birds upon the heather.
Day by day in chapters holy,
Food is scattered for the lowly,
And, like birds, that fly and gather,
Find soul-bread, and bless thy Father.