HIS WORK by Charles M. Snow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 15, 1897

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 23, No. 27.

HIS WORK.

By Charles M. Snow

FROM out that darksome wilderness With its temptations sore, Where Satan armed his angry hosts And hurled his bolts of war— From 'neath its somber covering, Its battlements unseen, There walked with slow and fainting steps The lowly Nazarene.

He fought with fallen angels there This world's redemption strife— Fought for a boon but few would crave, The yielding of His life. Twas not the martyr's name He sought, Nor glory nor renown: He fought to die that we might live To wear the victor's crown.

The earth reeled in her drunkenness; Vain did the wretched cry; The fallen groveled where they lay; The priesthood passed them by. The withered hand was withered still; The leper was unclean; The cripple knew no healing touch From pitying Nazarene.

But now the wilderness was won. Fresh from His victory The famished Prince of Heaven sought His blessed Galilee. Along her rugged, wind-swept shores, With fisher dwellings spread, The Prince of Heaven first broke for man The true, life-giving bread.

How hallowed are thy tossing waves, Thou childish, fretful sea! How sacred are thy speaking shores, Thou hill-girt Galilee! Couldst thou His gracious words repeat, His healing power command, How would we seek thy foot-worn shore To worship on thy strand!

Thine every wave in speaking tones A story tells to me Of chains that fell from captive limbs By storm-tossed Galilee. No wonder that His fame was voiced Through all the region 'round: His words a healing lotion were For every bleeding wound.

His was the "Great Commission" from The Lord of light above, To preach the Gospel to the poor And show God's wondrous love; To heal the broken heart, and set The fearful captive free; To liberate the bruised and bound And make the sightless see.

That was the Master's mission, that The mission He bestows On all who would that fair land see Where life's pure river flows, Or who that glorious morn would greet Whose dawn e'en now appears, When Eden's flowers shall bloom again, Tho dead six thousand years. CHARLES M. SNOW.