The Voice of the Stars
By Marion Lumley
THE cares of the day were over, And my spirit, somewhat depressed, In the calm of a summer evening Had sought to find a rest. As I watched the bright stars shining, Rich gems in an arch of blue, They whispered the sweet old story, That is still so strangely new. Far, far away to the northward, With a clear and radiant light, Shone the star that guides the pilgrim Through the silent hours of the night. An emblem, methought, of Jesus, Who ever remains the same, Whose eye still guides the believer, Who trusts in his holy name. There, too, hung the great north dipper, And it seemed to say to me, “Come, drink of the living water, That floweth so pure and free; The fountain is Christ, your Redeemer, Who suffered for all mankind, And they who drink of this water, Shall true refreshment find.” The crown, in its regal beauty, Appeared in the western sky, And told how the Prince of heaven Once left his throne on high, To wear on his brow the thorn-crown, So great was his love for me, That I the crown of the righteous Might wear in eternity. I looked at the sparkling sickle, And thought of the day to come, When, armed with his sickle, the reaper Should gather the harvest home. You may plant, and I will water, No labor shall be in vain, And the Lord of all the harvest Shall garner the golden grain. I watched the stately Orion, With gleaming buckler and sword, And thought of the well-armed Christian, Whose sword is the Holy Word, Whose girdle is truth, and whose helmet The hope of salvation, free, Whose shield is faith; ’tis the armor, Dear Christian, prepared for thee. I searched through all the heavens For an emblem of his love. Would I find it?— Yes, clear shining From the deep-blue arch above Were the seven little sisters, A fitting emblem were these; For seven, the perfect number, I found in the Pleiades. Above me, belting the heavens, Stretched the beautiful Milky Way, Like the path by the Spirit lighted, That ends in eternal day. They come from the north, from the southland, From the far east, from the west, Who traverse the narrow pathway To the city of the blest,— The city whose hidden glories God’s children shall behold,— The throne, the river, the mansions, The streets of burnished gold. And the hand that leads them thither, A gate of pearl unbars: ’Tis the story breathed in the stillness Of the evening by the stars. — Marion Lumley, in N. Y. Observer.