HIS FACE by Independent

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Aug 24, 1888

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 14, No. 33.

HIS FACE.

By Independent

In olden times, when miracles were wrought, A pious monk, whose only care or thought Was of God's glory, lived and strove to win The suffering world from sorrow, pain, and sin. A pure and blameless life the good man led; He clothed the naked, and the hungry fed; He nursed the sick, and loosed the bondman's chain, And suffering never sought his aid in vain. His faith was great; and yet he oft was moved By strong desire to know his life approved; To get from Heaven some miracle or sign, Some sanction of his life by Love divine. And thus he prayed: "Lord, if I go astray, Do thou direct me in the heavenly way! "And if my life's acceptable to thee, Do show, dear Lord, thy loving face to me." But days went by, and summers went and came, His life unchanged, his daily prayer the same, But all in vain; for to his yearning cry All Heaven seemed deaf. The Lord made no reply.

At last, with age grown gray, with suffering bent, His earthly substance gone, his strength all spent, Upon a mossy bank, with weary sigh, He breathed a prayer, and laid him down to die. Then what a change came o'er his wondering soul! His pain departed, and around him stole A heavenly radiance, and before him stood, Not the dear Lord, only an angel good. And in a voice so sweet that it awoke Strange thrills of rapture in the monk, he spoke: "To do God's will, my son, thou'st nobly striven; And to thy prayer an answer now is given. "Affix thy thoughts on Christ, gaze on my face, And soon thou'lt see the dear Lord take my place."

The monk complied; but at that instant came A wounded traveler, bleeding, bruised, and lame, With tattered garments, and with feet unshod, Who cried, "I need thy help!" and sank upon the sod. At the faint cry, the monk half turned his head, But paused an instant as the angel said: "What! for this beggar would'st thou turn from me, And from the dear Lord who would honor thee?"

A passing struggle; then the monk replied: "E'en for this beggar the dear Lord hath died. "Since he hath done so much, can I do less Than comfort this poor man in his distress? "I surely cannot leave this man to die." So saying, he arose, and, with a sigh, Unto the stranger's side he, tottering, sped, Bound up his wounds, pillowed the aching head Upon his cassock, bathed the bleeding feet, And soothed the suffering soul with solace sweet. While thus he labored, to the monk there came A sense of joy and peace, as if a flame Of love breathed on him from Heaven's open door, Thrilling his soul with bliss unknown before.

Wondering, the monk beheld the stranger rise. What glorious transformation met his eyes! The tattered garments shone a robe of light! Around the face an aureole gleamed bright! Each shrunken limb rounded by perfect line, The haggard features changed to lineaments divine! The monk his Saviour knew, and bowed in prayer; And then a sweet voice sounded through the air: "Who can, to do my work, his dearest wish resign, He, and he only, sees this face of mine."

A dreamer's legend, say you? It may be. And yet the lessons taught in Galilee Of love to God and man, can ne'er grow old; And he who learns them well need not be told That sacrifice of self to do God's will Will win sweet glimpses of the Lord's face still.