Passion of Regret

The Disciples

(by Harriet Eleanor Hamilton-King)

WE suffer. Why we suffer,-that is hid

With Gods foreknowledge in the clouds of Heaven.

The first book written sends that human cry

Out of the clear Chaldean pasture-lands

Down forty centuries; and no answer yet

Is found, nor will be found, while yet we live

In limitations of Humanity.

But yet one thought has often stayed by me

In the night-watches, which has brought at least

The patience for the hour, and made the pain

No more a burden which I groaned to leave,

But something precious which I feared to lose.

-How shall I show it, but by parables?

The sculptor, with his Psyches wings half-hewn

May close his eyes in weariness, and wake

To meet the white cold clay of his ideal

Flushed into beating life, and singing down

The ways of Paradise. The husbandman

May leave the golden fruitage of his groves

Ungarnered, and upon the Tree of Life

Will find a richer harvest waiting him.

The soldier dying thinks upon his bride,

And knows his arms shall never clasp her more,

Until he first the face of his unborn child

Behold in heaven: for each and all of life,

In every phase of action, love, and joy,

There is fulfilment only otherwhere.-

But if, impatient, thou let slip thy cross,

Thou wilt not find it in this world again,

Nor in another; here, and here alone

Is given thee to suffer for Gods sake.

In other worlds we shall more perfectly

Serve Him and love Him, praise Him, work for Him,

Grow near and nearer Him with all delight;

But then we shall not any more be called

To suffer, which is our appointment here.

Canst thou not suffer then one hour,-or two?

If He should call thee from thy cross to-day,

Saying, It is finished!-that hard cross of thine

From which thou prayest for deliverance,

Thinkest thou not some passion of regret

Would overcome thee? Thou wouldst say, So soon?

Let me go back, and suffer yet awhile

More patiently;-I have not yet praised God.

And He might answer to thee,-Never more.

All pain is done with. Whensoeer it comes,

That summons that we look for, it will seem

Soon, yea too soon. Let us take heed in time

That God may now be glorified in us;

And while we suffer, let us set our souls

To suffer perfectly: since this alone,

The suffering, which is this worlds special grace,

May here be perfected and left behind.

-But in obedience and humility;-

Waiting on Gods hand, not forestalling it.

Seek not to snatch presumptuously the palm

By self-election; poison not thy wine

With bitter herbs if He has made it sweet;

Nor rob Gods treasuries because the key

Is easy to be turned by mortal hands.

The gifts of birth, death, genius, suffering,

Are all for His hand only to bestow.

Receive thy portion, and be satisfied.

Who crowns himself a king is not the more

Royal; nor he who mars himself with stripes

The more partaker of the Cross of Christ.

But if Himself He come to thee, and stand

Beside thee, gazing down on thee with eyes

That smile, and suffer; that will smite thy heart,

With their own pity, to a passionate peace;

And reach to thee Himself the Holy Cup

(With all its wreathen stems of passion-flowers

And quivering sparkles of the ruby stars),

Pallid and royal, saying Drink with Me

Wilt thou refuse? Nay, not for Paradise!

The pale brow will compel thee, the pure hands

Will minister unto thee; thou shalt take

Of that communion through the solemn depths

Of the dark waters of thine agony,

With heart that praises Him, that yearns to Him

The closer through that hour. Hold fast His hand,

Though the nails pierce thine too! take only care

Lest one drop of the sacramental wine

Be spilled, of that which ever shall unite

Thee, soul and body to thy living Lord!

Therefore gird up thyself, and come, to stand

Unflinching under the unfaltering hand,

That waits to prove thee to the uttermost.

It were not hard to suffer by His hand,

If thou couldst see His face;-but in the dark!

That is the one last trial:-be it so.

Christ was forsaken, so must thou be too:

How couldst thou suffer but in seeming, else?

Thou wilt not see the face nor feel the hand,

Only the cruel crushing of the feet,

When through the bitter night the Lord comes down

To tread the winepress.-Not by sight, but faith,

Endure, endure,-be faithful to the end!