Poems (Shipton)/The Finger of God

by Anna Shipton

THE FINGER OF GOD.

"God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved."—John iii. 17.
"Never man spake like this Man."—John vii. 46.

He stooped, and wrote upon the ground:
 No sound the silence breaks;
Quick-heaving breasts and clouded brows
 Proclaim that conscience wakes:
Men feel that God Himself is there,
Beneath whose sight the soul lies bare.

We know not what that finger traced
 To meet each downcast eye,
What long-forgotten sins arose
 In slumbering memory;
In darkness veiled—to men unknown,
But seen by God, by God alone.

He reads their thoughts, deceitful all;
 Clear to His sight they shine;
Lust, avarice, murder, serpent's guile,
 And last—their dark design.
He bids the sinless cast the stone;
And lo, they go forth, one by one!

He stooped and wrote. Oh, tender still
 To them His pure eyes scanned!
Each reads the mystic sign aright
 None else may understand.
The silent witness on the ground
Tells not the tale to ears around.

O thou sad woman, bowed in shame!
 Shalt thou e'er rise again?
Behold, the helpless stands before
 The righteous Judge of men!
And now, thy last accuser gone,
The Sinless One may cast the stone.

And doth He cast it? Lifting up
 Himself, He gazed around.
Alone with Jesus! leave her there,
 She hath the Refuge found:
Her life, her guilty life is o'er,
He bids her "Go, and sin no more."

Thus to the sinner speaks He still,
 Thus does He speak to me,
"From the dark thraldom of thy sin
 I came to set thee free."
Saviour and sinner stand alone:
Oh, let the Sinless cast the stone.

Not for dread condemnation here
 Hath Christ this dark world trod:
The holy Saviour, perfect Man,
 The spotless Lamb of God,
Came but a pardon free to give,
And bid the weeping sinner live.

O loving, tender Son of Man!
 More light and life be mine:
Teach me Thy finger, Lord, to trace
 In every mystic sign,
Writ on Thy spangled heavens above,
Or earth's dark pages,—"God is love."

And when my secret sins arise
 With fierce confounding might,
And Satan, with malicious rage,
 Darkens my day to night;
Shall my accuser then be found?
Nay! grace, Thy grace, shall more abound.

Yea, let me be alone with Thee,
 That Thou my soul mayst scan;
Better the chastening hand of God
 Than tenderest love of man.
Thy blood shall then my soul restore,
And bid me "Go, and sin no more."