The Smoking Flax and Bruised Reed
By Rev. W. B. Robertson
"A bruised reed shall He not break, and smoking flax shall He not quench." When evening choirs the praises hymned
In Zions courts of old,
The high priest walked his rounds, and trimmed
The shining lamps of gold;
And if, perchance, some flame burned low,
With fresh oil vainly drenched,
He cleansed it from its socket, so
The smoking flax was quenched. But Thou who walkest, Priest most high,
Thy golden lamps among,
What things are weak, and near to die,
Thou makest fresh and strong;
Thou breathest on the trembling spark
That else must soon expire,
And swift it shoots up through the dark
A brilliant spear of fire. The shepherd that to streams and shade
Withdrew his flock at noon,
On reedy stop soft music made
In many a pastoral tune;
And if, perchance, the reed were crushed,
It could not more be used—
Its mellow music marred and hushed,
He broke it, when so bruised. But Thou, Good Shepherd, who dost feed
Thy flock in pastures green,
Thou dost not break the bruised reed
That sorely crushed hath been:
The heart that dumb in anguish lies,
Or yields but notes of wo,
Thou dost retune to harmonies
More rich than angels know. Lord, once my love was all ablaze,
But now it burns so dim!
My life was praise, but now my days
Make a poor broken hymn!
Yet ne'er by Thee am I forgot,
But helped in deepest need—
The smoking flax Thou quenchest not,
Nor break'st the bruised reed.