THE TROUBLE IN THE CHURCH.
By A. L. Harvey
THERE was evidently trouble, and the parson heaved a sigh
As he glanced around the audience and caught the deacon's eye;
And the deacon gazed in wrath upon the leader of the choir,
While the latter looked the sexton through with mingled scorn and ire. The little band of worshipers sat silently in dread
Of some impending evil, while the parson's silvered head
Sank low upon his withered hand. No sound the stillness broke,
Until, in tones subdued and sad, the good old parson spoke. "My brethren, many weary years I've taught this little flock,
And tried to place them safely on the firm, unyielding Rock,
Through summer's sun, through winter's chill, through day and cheerless night,
I've striven to serve my Master, and lead my sheep aright. "When first I came among you, there was lightness in my tread;
The snows of eighty winters had not drifted o'er my head.
This withered hand was strong and firm; this brow as smooth and fair
As any, ere the hand of time had left its traces there. "You did not come and tell me then that I was growing old,
And that a younger man, perhaps, could better guard the fold,
You did not say my eye was dim, my voice could scarce be heard,
And that I was no longer fit to preach my Master's word! "'Tis true my hand is tremulous, my voice is weak and low,
And years have circled round my head, and left it white as snow;
But do you think, my brethren, that my heart is altered too—
That time has withered it, until there is no place for you! "And now—O brethren! when I think of hours that I've passed here,
Where heaven and earth and all mankind grew nearer—doubly dear;
This little church, the only spot this world can hold for me,
I ne'er must look upon again—these faces never see. "It fills my heart with sadness; but the Father's will be done,
And though my voice be weak, I pray God bless you, every one!
And he will hear and answer, and although my eyes are dim,
I pray that your's may never grow too weak to look on him! "The time is drawing near when I must lay life's burden down;
I've borne the cross for many a year, and soon shall wear the crown;
And think you, when I've journeyed to the shining gates of gold,
The blessed Lord will say to me, 'Depart, you are too old!' "Now, brethren, will you take my hand just once before I go,
And say a kind farewell?" The weeping deacon faltered, "No!
We'll take your hand, but, brother, let us still retain your heart,
We've loved you all these fifty years—this is no time to part!" A sound of muffled sobbing through the church the parson heard,
And reverently laid his hand upon God's holy word,
And said: "My brethren, here behold the only living way;
A better teacher far than I, and older. Let us pray." —A. L. Harvey, in Inter-Ocean.