p. 1 | THE SERAPH'S TOUCH by Margaret E. Sangster

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Aug 28, 1879

THE SERAPH'S TOUCH.

By Margaret E. Sangster

"Then flew one of the seraphin unto me, having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar."—Isa. vi. 6.

BEFORE the great white throne on high, Their faces covered, veiled their feet, They stood, who on Love's errands fly With swift precision, strong and fleet, In light to make the noonday dim, These golden ranks of seraphim.

Than theirs, a glory greater far O'erhung the wide and stately place. As the sun veils the brightest star, Before the Lord they veiled the face, And waited, fair, serene and still, Till came the time to do His will.

And ever bursts of music sweet, With sudden triumph swayed the bands, When thrice they would the Name repeat Of Him who ruleth sea and lands, And "Holy, holy, holy," cry, "Art Thou the King, the Lord Most High!"

There faltered on the outer verge Of that rich throng a trembling soul, From whom there broke, in weary dirge, A moan of bitter grief and dole: "Ah, woe is me, for I, unclean, The King, the Lord of Hosts, have seen."

A shining seraph heard his plaint, The cry of shame and quivering dread; Beheld him shrinking, terror-faint, And to the glowing altar sped, Thence bore a burning coal away, And touched him where he abject lay.

A sudden bolt of sternest pain Shot quickly through him like a dart, And then, like softest summer rain, The seraph-voice fell on his heart; "Lo! this hath touched thy lips," he said, "And sin and wrath from thee have fled."

In rapt, ecstatic gratitude, The man arose, by Love set free From servile fear, and straight he stood Where glittering throngs of seraphs be, To do their work his strong desire, Sealed unto God with sacred fire.

"Send me," he cried, when spake the King For one to go with words divine. O seraph watcher, haste, and bring To us the fiery, burning sign: We, too, would feel the blessed pain, And lift our foreheads, pure of stain.

We, too, would know the joyous thrill Of consecration unreserved, And, set apart to do His will, With hearts by nothing earthly swerved, Would still, whate'er Love's message be, Say each: "O, Lord of Life, send me!"

—Margaret E. Sangster.