Poems (Shipton)/Prayer

by Anna Shipton

For works with similar titles, see Prayer.

PRAYER.

"And His disciples . . . went and told Jesus."—Matt. xiv. 12.

Know'st thou, O soul, that in yon blessed sphere,
 Where Jesus reigns, He doth securely hold
A cure for all thy sin and sorrow here?
 Why art thou so perplexed when thou dost fold,
Idly or scornfully, within thy hands
 The key to His rich treasury? Yet now
Thy scalding tears but water barren lands,
 And mark a deeper furrow in thy brow.
With hand unlifted, and unbended knee,
 Thou wailest wildly o'er a broken toy:
Thou wilt not use the golden promise-key,
 Why let the rust its precious use destroy?
Hast thou a fonder friend, and wilt thou tell
 To him the woe that wounds? or dost thou hide
Within the pierced heart's most secret cell
 Thy rankling anguish? Is it shame, or pride,
Or cold indifference, or unbelief?
 O soul most desolate, look up! For thee
One faithful voice doth promise sure relief.
 Whate'er thy sin, whate'er thy sorrow be,
Tell all to Jesus. He looketh where
 The weary-hearted weep, and draweth near
To listen fondly to the half-formed prayer,
 Or read the silent pleading of a tear.
Lose not thy privilege, silent soul;
 Pour out thy sorrow at thy Saviour's feet.
What outcast spurns the hand that gives the dole?
 Oh, let Him hear thy voice! to Him thy voice is sweet.