Be Saved by J. W. Craig

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Feb 20, 1912

Be Saved

By J. W. Craig

O Moon, thou wondrous thing! How rid'st thou far beyond the highest cloud, With naught to which canst cling! Lest, dropping earthward 'gainst some mount, dark-browed, And granite-filled, and strong, Thy crystal mold should, crushed and broken, strew His rock-ribbed sides along With glinting fragments strange to human view!

How'rt held, O wondrous orb? Hast wings unseen which give thee equipoise? Which gravity absorb? Do ghostly arms herculean, rejoice To fold thee safe, secure From fate so dire, so terrible, so sad? Or art thou anchored sure By link or line to fortress Heaven-had?

We know how clouds are formed Which sail beneath thee, bathed in glorious light, Or drive when earth is stormed, In blackened fury raging, dark as night.

They come; they fret their time; Then dissipate mid rays of jovial heat, And leave serene that clime O'er which they rolled and tossed in wrath and heat.

But thou, amazing disk, Whose bulging forefront, rounding edge, proclaim Thee globe, immense, at risk— Altho reducing distance would of shame Belittle thee—dost still In grandeur swing, nor swerving aught aside At noisy, blustering will Of tempest howling 'neath, dost yet abide!

By science firm, 'tis said Thou'rt ponderous! Thy weight in meted pounds— Unerring digit laid— Is greater far than comprehension rounds! That miles on miles, inert Thy deadened surface lies in chasms rent, While silence doth engirt Thee round in dreadful, awful, frightful bent!

Still, art thou there just now, And hast been, ages gone, immutable In route, nor falling slow In gait, doing His will, inscrutable, Who flung thee into space By His creative word, and marked thy way— Which thou dost yet embrace, And will, whilst He survive or heavens stay!

Yet, doubt'st thou, puny man! Thou creature of His breath who Monarch is Of all these realms which span The skies, star-gemmed, where earth, thy home, is His, And thou but finite be, And canst not therefore grasp His awful might, Nor Infinite canst see, Presumptuously thou say'st, There be no sight!

O, foolish, swollen thing! O, rash, conceited being, bubble-filled! Thy God with puncturing sting Of senseful lancet, could, if He so willed, Quick empty, flatten thee, And leave thee shamed anent thy proselytes! But, loving, pitying, He Doth suffer thee, doth bear in hope thy plights.

Why longer stand arrayed In mail of thread, of gauze, infatuate, Deeming so thou art stayed In panoply of steel, impenetrate? His genesis thou need'st— No more. Naught less can shield, defend thy soul— 'Gainst Satan, whom thou heed'st; Who's leading thee fast on to ruin's shoal.

Then shalt thou know the joy, The ecstasy there be in simple faith, Childlike, without alloy Of fear or dread which dark rebellion payeth. Thy wealth, position, fame Of polished, erudition's prideful trim, Shall pall, and, waxen tame, Discarded be for restful peace in Him.

O brother, sister fair, Pray doubt no more! For doubt is sneaking sire To raving, wild despair. Give pride no place. To Christ alone aspire. He loves thee much and well, And fain would heal—forgive thee all thy past; Would save thy soul from hell, And give thee home with Him in heaven at last.

When He appear, whose right And skill to judge thee—sentence thee at need— Thou'll own and praise—despite Thy present boastful will to shirk that meed— 'Tis then thou'll learn thy loss, Too late! Hence yield to Him whom thou hast braved. Take up thy willing cross, Atone by sweet obedience. Be saved.