Part 7 (2/2)

LAST WORDS OF SAMUEL A. PURDIE

From the charm of idle pleasure, From Ambition's siren song, From the rush for earthly treasure Of the busy, careless throng; In the dawn of life's fair morning He had heard the Master's call; ”Yea, I come,” his heart made answer, ”Paradise will pay for all.”

On through years of toil and struggle Walked he, faithful to his word; Blameless life and kind entreaty Leading many to the Lord.

Meeting dangers, bearing burdens Well might stoutest heart appal; But to every doubt replying, ”Paradise will pay for all.”

Now at eve, toil-spent and weary, Pierced with pain the pilgrim lay; Watching still with faith triumphant For the dawn of brighter day.

Then upon his ear there falleth Once again the Master's call: ”Come up higher.” ”Yea,” he answers, ”Paradise will pay for all.”

FORGIVENESS

Father in Heaven, I thank Thee for this hour, This blessed hour wherein my contrite soul Humbled and happy bows itself to Thee, Pleading that all its error and its sin May be forgiven--even as I forgive.

The cruel wrong swept o'er me like a flood; And my hurt soul in fierce defiance rose, And all forgetful that itself could sin Heaped heavy hatred on the offender's head.

There came a calmer hour in which I saw The strong temptation that had moved him thus To barter all his better life away-- Love, honor, principle--to gain the world.

And seeing this I learned to pity him.

For well I knew the bauble he had won Would only mock him with its faithless glare; And well I knew the golden fruit he grasped Would be but dust and ashes in his hand; And knowing this I learned to pity him.

And as my pity grew it turned to prayer-- That when the glitter of the gold was gone, And the sweet fruit was bitter to his taste; When the sad memory of the slighted past Came, and made deeper still the present gloom, The darkness might be lifted, and the Soul, Self-robbed and famis.h.i.+ng, might find its way To the green pastures and the springs of life, That in the heart whence love and joy had fled, Whence hope was exiled, there might yet be peace.

But suddenly I queried in my heart What power had moved me that I should have prayed For him I counted as my life-long foe.

Greatly I marveled what it meant that thus I had called down such blessing upon him-- The kindliest boon of heaven, the peace of G.o.d.

Deep in my soul there came an answering voice: ”O Child, _it is but this--thou hast forgiven_!”

Then thanks, O Father, for this plessed hour, Wherein my soul, by Thine own Spirit taught, Prays with no mockery of words Thy prayer: ”Forgive my trespa.s.ses, _as I forgive_.”

A LOST SONG?

Horror of combat, and tumult and dread; Thunder of cannon and bursting of bomb; Moans of the wounded (who envy the dead) Lost in the clamor of trumpet and drum.

O where is the song of the angels?

O when shall we hear it again?

”Peace on earth,” rang the chorus seraphic, ”And good will evermore among men.”

Here is fierce anger and hatred and death, Pitiless slaughter of pitiless foe; Blessings and curses poured forth in a breath; Brave self-forgetting, and measureless woe.

But where is the song of the angels?

O when shall we hear it again?

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