'All's Well!', John Oxenham [best fiction novels of all time .txt] 📗
- Author: John Oxenham
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THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His holy ground all cratered and crevassed,
All flailed to fragments by the fiery blast,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His church a blackened ruin, scarce one stone
Left on another,—yet, untouched alone,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
His shrines o'erthrown, His altars desecrate,
His priests the victims of a pagan hate,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
'Mid all the horrors of the reddened ways,
The thund'rous nights, the dark and dreadful days,—
THE CROSS STILL STANDS!
* * * * *
And, 'mid the chaos of the Deadlier Strife,—
A Church at odds with its own self and life,—
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Faith folds her wings, and Hope at times grows dim;
The world goes wandering away from Him;—
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Love, with the lifted hands and thorn-crowned head,
Still conquers Death, though life itself be fled;—
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Yes,—Love triumphant stands, and stands for more,
In our great need, than e'er it stood before!
HIS CROSS STILL STANDS!
Where are you sleeping to-night, My Lad,
Above-ground—or below?
The last we heard you were up at the front,
Holding a trench and bearing the brunt;—
But—that was a week ago.
Ay!—that was a week ago, Dear Lad,
And a week is a long, long time,
When a second's enough, in the thick of the strife,
To sever the thread of the bravest life,
And end it in its prime.
Oh, a week is long when so little's enough
To send a man below.
It may be that while we named your name
The bullet sped and the quick end came,—
And the rest we shall never know.
But this we know, Dear Lad,—all's well
With the man who has done his best.
And whether he live, or whether he die,
He is sacred high in our memory;—
And to God we can leave the rest.
So—wherever you're sleeping to-night, Dear Lad,
This one thing we do know,—
When "Last Post" sounds, and He makes His rounds,
Not one of you all will be out of bounds,
Above ground or below.
Soul, dost thou fear
For to-day or to-morrow?
'Tis the part of a fool
To go seeking sorrow.
Of thine own doing
Thou canst not contrive them.
'Tis He that shall give them;
Thou may'st not outlive them.
So why cloud to-day
With fear of the sorrow,
That may or may not
Come to-morrow?
I know! I know!—
The ceaseless ache, the emptiness, the woe,—
The pang of loss,—
The strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross.
"—Heedless and careless, still the world wags on,
And leaves me broken … Oh, my son! my son!"
Yet—think of this!—
Yea, rather think on this!—
He died as few men get the chance to die,—
Fighting to save a world's morality.
He died the noblest death a man may die,
Fighting for God, and Right, and Liberty;—
And such a death is Immortality.
"He died unnoticed in the muddy trench."
Nay,—God was with him, and he did not blench;
Filled him with holy fires that nought could quench,
And when He saw his work below was done,
He gently called to him,—"My son! My son!
I need thee for a greater work than this.
Thy faith, thy zeal, thy fine activities
Are worthy of My larger liberties;"—
—Then drew him with the hand of welcoming grace,
And, side by side, they climbed the heavenly ways.
Lord, save their souls alive!
And—for the rest,—
We leave it all to Thee;
Thou knowest best.
Whether they live or die,
Safely they'll rest,
Every true soul of them,
Thy Chosen Guest.
Whether they live or die,
They chose the best,
They sprang to Duty's call,
They stood the test.
If they come back to us—
How grateful we!
If not,—we may not grieve;
They are with Thee.
No soul of them shall fail,
Whate'er the past.
Who dies for Thee and Thine
Wins Thee at last.
Who, through the fiery gates,
Enter Thy rest,
Greet them as conquerors,—
Bravest and best!
Every white soul of them,
Ransomed and blest,—
Wear them as living gems,
Bear them as living flames,
High on Thy breast!
The spikenard was not wasted;—
All down the tale of years,
The fragrance of that broken alabaster
Still clings to Mary's memory,
As clung its perfume sweet unto her Master.
Not less than Martha,
Mary served her Lord,
Although she but sat worshipping,
While Martha spread the board.
They also minister to Christ,
And render noblest duty,
Whose sweet hands touch life's common rounds
To Fragrance and to Beauty.
Midway between the flaming lines he lay,
A tumbled heap of blood, and sweat, and clay;
—God's son!
And none could succour him. First this one tried,
Then that … and then another … and they died;
—God's sons!
Those others saw his plight, and laughed and jeered,
And, at each helper's fall, laughed more, and cheered;
—God's sons?
So, through the torture of an endless day,
In agonies that none could ease, he lay;
—God's son!
Then, as he wrestled for each hard-won breath,
Bleeding his life out, craving only death;—
—God's son!
—Came One in white, athwart the fiery hail,
And in His hand, a shining cup—The Grail;
—God's Son!
He knelt beside him on the reeking ground,
And with a touch soothed each hot-throbbing wound;
—God's Son!
Gave him to drink, and in his failing ear
Whispered sweet words of comfort and good cheer;
—God's Son!
The suffering one looked up into the face
Of Him whose death to sinners brought God's grace;
—God's Son!
The tender brow with unhealed wounds was scarred,
The hand that held The Cup, the nails had marred;
—God's Son!
"Brother, for thee I suffered greater woes;
As I forgave,—do thou forgive thy foes,
—God's son!"
"Yea, Lord, as Thou forgavest, I forgive;
And now, my soul unto Thyself receive,
—God's Son!"
Thick-clustered in the battered trench, amazed,
They gazed at that strange sight … and gazed … and gazed;
—God's sons!
—The Christ of God, come down to succour one
Of their own number,—their own mate—
—God's son!
And none who saw that sight will e'er forget
How once, upon the field of death, they met
—God's Son.
We thank Thee, Lord,
For mercies manifold in these dark days;—
For Heart of Grace that would not suffer wrong;
For all the stirrings in the dead dry bones;
For bold self-steeling to the times' dread needs;
For every sacrifice of self to Thee;
For ease and wealth and life so freely given;
For Thy deep sounding of the hearts of men;
For Thy great opening of the hearts of men;
For Thy close-knitting of the hearts of men;
For all who sprang to answer the great call;
For their high courage and self-sacrifice;
For their endurance under deadly stress;
For all the unknown heroes who have died
To keep the land inviolate and free;
For all who come back from the Gates of Death;
For all who pass to larger life with Thee,
And find in Thee the wider liberty;
For hope of Righteous and Enduring Peace;
For hope of cleaner earth and closer heaven;
With burdened hearts, but faith unquenchable,—
We thank Thee, Lord!
"Thy Will be done!"
Let all the worlds
Resound with that divinest prayer!
The joyous souls redeemed from ill
Know all the wonders of Thy Will;
Heaven's highest bliss is surely this,—
"Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"
"Thy Will be done!"
Tis not Thy Will
That Sin or Sorrow rule the world.
Thy Will is Joy, and Hope, and Light;
Thy Will is All-Triumphant Right.
And so, exultantly, we cry,—
"Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"
"Thy Will be done!"
It is Thy Will
That all Life's wrongs should be redressed;
That burdened souls their bonds should break;
That Earth of Heavenly Joys partake.
And so, right wistfully, we cry,—
"Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"
"Thy Will be done!"
'Tis not Thy Will
That man should kiss a chastening rod;
But, heart abrim, and head to heaven,
Should praise his God for mercies given,
And ever cry right joyously,—
"Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"
"Thy Will be done!"
It is Thy Will
That Life should seek its golden prime,—
That strife 'twixt man and man should cease,—
That all Thy sons should build Thy peace.
And so, full longingly, we cry,—
"Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"
"Thy Will be done!"
Then Earth were Heaven,
If but Thy gracious Will prevailed;
If every will that worketh ill
Would bend to Thine, and Thine fulfil,
And with us pray,—"Bring in Thy Day!
Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done!"
(As earnestly as any I crave the victory of Right over this madness of Insensate Might against which we are contending. As certainly as any I would, if that were conceivably possible, have adequate punishment meted out to those who have brought this horror upon the world. But I see, as all save the utterly earth-blinded must see—that when the Day of Settlement comes, and we and our allies are in a position to impose terms, unless we go into the Council-Chamber with hearts set inflexibly on the Common Weal of the World—in a word, unless we invite Christ to a seat at the Board—the end may be even worse than the beginning;—this which we have hoped and prayed night be the final war may prove but the beginning of strifes incredible.)
"Only through Me!" … The clear, high call comes pealing,
Above the thunders of the battle-plain;—
"Only through Me can Life's red wounds find healing;
Only through Me shall Earth have peace again.
Only through Me! … Love's Might, all might transcending,
Alone can draw the poison-fangs of Hate.
Yours the beginning!—Mine a nobler ending,—
Peace upon Earth, and Man regenerate!
Only through Me can come the great awaking;
Wrong cannot right the wrongs that Wrong hath done;
Only through Me, all other gods forsaking,
Can ye attain the heights that must be won.
Only through Me shall Victory be sounded;
Only through Me can Right wield righteous sword;
Only through Me shall Peace be surely founded;
Only through Me! … Then bid Me to the Board!"
* * * * *
Can we not rise to such great height of glory?
Shall this vast sorrow spend itself in vain?
Shall future ages tell the woful story,—
"Christ by His own was crucified again"?
The nations are in the proving;
Each day is Judgment Day;
And the peoples He finds wanting
Shall pass—by the Shadowy Way.
The Greatest Day that ever dawned,—
It was a Winter's Morn.
The Finest Temple ever built
Was a Shed where a Babe was born.
The Sweetest Robes by woman wrought
Were the Swaths by the Baby worn.
And the Fairest Hair the world has seen,
—Those Locks that were never shorn.
The Noblest Crown man ever wore,—
It was the Plaited Thorn.
The Grandest Death man ever died,—
It was the Death of Scorn.
The Sorest Grief by woman known
Was the Mother-Maid's forlorn.
The Deepest Sorrows e'er endured
Were by The Outcast borne.
The Truest Heart the world e'er broke
Was the Heart by man's sins torn.
Wherever is an empty chair—
Lord, be Thou there!
And fill it—like an answered prayer—
With grace of fragrant thought, and rare
Sweet memories of him whose place
Thou takest for a little space!—
—With thought of that heroical
Great heart that sprang to Duty's call;
—With thought of all the best in him,
That Time shall have no power to dim;
—With thought of Duty nobly done,
And High Eternal Welfare won.
Think! Would you wish that he had stayed,
When all the rest The Call obeyed?
—That thought of self had held in thrall
His soul, and shrunk it mean and small?
Nay, rather thank the Lord that he
Rose to such height of chivalry;
—That, with the need, his loyal soul
Swung like a needle to its pole;
—That, setting duty first, he went
At once, as to a sacrament.
So, Lord, we thank Thee for Thy Grace,
And pray Thee fill his vacant place!
From deepest depth, O Lord, I cry to Thee.
"My Love runs quick to your necessity."
I am bereft;
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