There was a slave, who, born to days unbless’d,
Drew from his parent blood the hard decree
Of ceaseless and unwilling servitude.
His fathers, many an age, had worn the yoke
Of an incens’d and much offended Lord,
Whom ancient wrong, and ire inherited,
Had made the object of their ceaseless dread.
Just was he, and yet merciless to these,
The subjects of his well-deserved wrath.
“Do this, and live – neglect it, and thou diest!”
This was his high, irrevocable word.
The slave, unknowing of a better state,
And early taught that to obey was life,
Repin’d not at his destiny, but sought
To ease the servitude he could not shun,
And to evade the penalty he fear’d.
Much was he learned to digest the law,
And well he knew, by artful sophistry,
To bend the rigid letter to his will.
Here to excuse by outward circumstance,
There by the native feebleness within;
This by temptation, that by ignorance;
It seem’d his only effort was to find
How little he might do and be secure;
And where he could not soften, or pervert,
He served with slavish and mistrustful zeal.
He served, indeed, but did he love that Lord?
Would he not leave his service, if he could?
Would he not disobey him, if he dar’d?
This is not love – he did not, could not love him.
But it befell, that in a kinder hour, –
For much of kindness was there in his breast,-
The Lord, contemplating this race condemn’d,
Fix’d his paternal fondness on the slave,
And, paying of his own the ransom due,
Took him to be his favour’d, foster’d child.
Gone was the bitter menace of the law,
The natal curse, and judgment’s dreaded hour;
For he, his master once, his father now,
Nurtur’d and led him with a father’s care,
Chastis’d his errors, but as fathers do,
Ev’n while they chasten longing to forgive;
And law or service none did he require,
But such as children to a parent owe,
The law of gratitude, the zeal of love.
Lov’d he his master now? How should he not?
And if you deem the portraiture I draw
Of what a Christian to his Maker owes,
And strives to render, be too highly drawn,
Judge ye between the master and his slave.
For were I bade to tell what earthly spirit
Best loves his great Creator and his God,
His Lord, his Master, I would say ’tis he
Who best believes himself belov’d of him.
One who errs not has answer’d the demand,
And says, “Herein is love;” but mark him where,
“Not you lov’d me, but I have loved you.”
But many a proud pretender’s lofty boast
Of zeal and service in the cause of heaven,
Must fall before this high and holy test;
And many an erring saint might thence be taught,
That with a faithless and mistrustful fear,
Seeming to doubt himself, he doubts his God.
Oh! would you be assur’d you love your God,
Make him a God that must be lov’d of need.
A God you cannot otherwise than love.
Throw off that yoke of joyless servitude,
That niggard balancing of right and wrong,
Which fears to give too little or too much.
Doubt is not love – suspicion is not love!
Believe that He has known you, pitied you,
Taken you from prison and from death,
Sought and pursu’d you through a world of ill –
Restrain’d you, taught you, rear’d you for his own.
Believe that he forgives you every sin,
Pays every debt, and cancels ev’ry claim –
Watches beside your pillow while you sleep,
Supports you, leads you, guards you when you wake,
And bids his angels know no better task
Than to administer to you, his child.
And while in heaven’s high mansion he prepares
The seat of royalty he bids you claim,
Arrays you in a vesture so divine,
Of holiness and virtue not your own,
That when the hour of just adjudgment comes,
All may confess in you the heir of heaven.
Believe the Lord your God is such an one,
And you must love him, even to your soul.
And if your heart, mistrustful, still will ask,
“But is it so?” It is, if you believe it –
If you will have it, if you wish it so.
He says it – He who never yet has fail’d,
Since time began, to do the thing he says –
And shall He falsely change His purpose now,
False in his love, though true in all beside?
Believe him, trust him, doubt not what he says –
Believe that he is this, and this to you;
And if your heart be as the marble cold,
And hard of nature as the stubborn rock,
‘Twill melt at contemplation of such love.
Then will you serve him with a heart so free,
So light, so confident, your Lord himself
Will glory in the service you can pay.
The wrong corrupted nature still will do
Towards such a God, will seem but doubly wrong;
But, if the sense of new-discover’d guilt
Tempt you to doubt his mercy and his love,
Asham’d to have mistrusted one so kind,
You’ll shed more tears of sorrow for that doubt,
Than for the sin itself that urg’d you to it.
Assur’d that one who loves you as his child,
Feels all your griefs, and joys when you are glad,
You will hear nothing in his high decrees,
E’en when they wound you, but the voice of love;
You’ll read a lesson that he wills you learn,
And not a dispensation of his wrath.
When heaven’s severer judgments are abroad,
And awe and terror overhang the world,
A sentiment sublime will fill your soul,
And whisper in you, “‘Tis my Father’s hand –
All may be lost, the world itself may fall,
But I shall be uninjur’d – I am His.”
The good he gives you will be doubly dear,
Because he gives it; and this nether world
Will gain a charm it never had before –
And even its disorders and its ills
Will shed a pleasing wonder o’er your soul,
To see how blindly they advance his will.
His services, his altars, and his house,
Will be the scenes of your intensest joys,
The things on earth you last would sacrifice.
His people you will love with such a love
As that your heavenly Master feels for you –
Something distinct from what their merit claims,
A love that is not lessen’d by the faults
Their Lord himself is pleas’d to overlook.
‘Tis they will be your counsellors and friends,
In grief your solace, partners in your bliss.
No measurement of service or of zeal
Will wake your fears; no calculation cold
Of what you may, or what you may not do;
Your joy will be to give him all you can;
Your greatest grief, that you can give no more:
Your business in life will then be none
In which you cannot ask his helping hand;
Your pleasures none but those himself has given,
And none for which you cannot give him thanks.
In grief your first sensation will be prayer,
In joy your strongest impulse will be praise.
You will expect from him your utmost wish,
Because you wish not, if he wish not too.
Thus will you serve Him with a holy calm,
Love what He loves, and fear what he condemns;
And feeling that in Him is all your joy,
And in His presence your most pure delight,
You will await His coming in such mind,
As we await the thing we most desire.
Let nature answer, if this be not love.
(Caroline Fry)
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