The Stroke of God by Arthur W. Spaulding

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · May 14, 1914

The Stroke of God

By Arthur W. Spaulding

ARTHUR W. SPAULDING

"Son of man, behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke: yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep, neither shall thy tears run down. . . . So I spake unto the people in the morning: and at even my wife died; and I did in the morning as I was commanded." Eze. 24: 16-18.

O SEER, that knew no passion but the holy joy Of serving Him, invisible, by thee beheld, What thoughts assailed thee on that day that didst destroy The dearest passion of the human heart unquelled?

The smiling palms of Aram's plains drooped low with grief, And Chebar's sluggish stream wept floods of sympathy; But tears and sighs were not for thee to bring relief: A woe too deep to utter moan was portioned thee.

Set for an omen of thy people's coming woe, Dry-eyed above the bier thou took'st the signal stroke. Spake in the morning what thy God didst bid thee show, Bowed at the eventide beneath the heavy yoke.

Thrice and again thy word had summer's fiery breath Borne, warning, to the rebels of thy stiff-necked race; Four winters had thy summons to impending death Brought no repentant turning to a pardoning grace.

Then, swift and sudden, on thy meek, victorious head Fell there the stroke of God, that they, the blind, might see. Stricken for them, thine eyes undimmed beheld thy dead, And they, thy people, saw their ominous doom in thee.

What, when thy hard commission first thine ears did hear,— As flint thy forehead and as iron thy brow,— What of the stone and steel did thy devotion fear Was pent for thine own heart within thine ardent vow?

Ah, not for thee to con and reckon were the stones; The hand that reached to lead thee could supply thy need! As in the valley of the dry and scattered bones, Thy cry, "Ah, Lord, thou knowest!" held thy simple creed.

And when the hour of anguish came no other knows Than he whose wedded flesh quivers beneath the blade, Came with the hour transcendent power of repose In him whose wisdom all the ordeal made.

O seer of God, across the dim and blackened page Where men have traced the record of their doubt-filled span, Bright shines the glory of thy faith from age to age, To fire the spirit of the fear-beleaguered man.

Wondering, I trace the splendors of thy visions rare, Wherein the glories of thy God thou didst behold; Yet with a deeper thrill I guide mine eye to where The pen of God thy humble sufferings doth unfold.

And in mine hour of anguish, when I would despair, May I remember, and in fellowship with thee, Before my God be able, answering to my prayer, To write the word, "I did as he commanded me."

Hendersonville, N. C.