Poems (Shipton)/The Wounded Soldier
Appearance
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
The soul of the wounded crieth out: yet God layeth not folly to them."—Job xxiv. 12.
It was the hour of battle,
No human eye looked on;
Angels and devils, marvel;
A victory is won!
No human eye looked on;
Angels and devils, marvel;
A victory is won!
There is a moan of anguish,
A warrior lies low;
A poisoned shaft is proving
The malice of the foe.
A warrior lies low;
A poisoned shaft is proving
The malice of the foe.
In the still midnight hour
No other sound is heard;
The weary hands fall helpless
That wielded well the sword.
No other sound is heard;
The weary hands fall helpless
That wielded well the sword.
There is no song of triumph,
And none the chaplet twine,
O weak and wounded soldier,
For that pale brow of thine.
And none the chaplet twine,
O weak and wounded soldier,
For that pale brow of thine.
Hath earth no balm to bring him?
Hath love no word to speak,
As in the dust he lieth,
With heart so nigh to break?
Hath love no word to speak,
As in the dust he lieth,
With heart so nigh to break?
For fierce the foe that found him,
(And who his power can scan?)
Oh, is there none to succor
That sad and lonely man?
(And who his power can scan?)
Oh, is there none to succor
That sad and lonely man?
Not earth, with all its glories
Could solace now impart;
Nor earthly love, the dearest,
Uphold that sinking heart.
Could solace now impart;
Nor earthly love, the dearest,
Uphold that sinking heart.
But see! the Man of Sorrows
Comes where His soldier lies;
He marks the lip that quivers
In untold agonies.
Comes where His soldier lies;
He marks the lip that quivers
In untold agonies.
Say, doth He bring him fetters,
Or comes He to upbraid?
Nay! to the rest that fails not
He draws the drooping head.
Or comes He to upbraid?
Nay! to the rest that fails not
He draws the drooping head.
And in that deep, deep silence
The gaping wounds are bound,
With touch so soft and gentle—
Hush! it is holy ground.
The gaping wounds are bound,
With touch so soft and gentle—
Hush! it is holy ground.
O Christ! Thy tender pity
For every pang I see;
Each sob of pain is numbered,
And counted as for Thee.
For every pang I see;
Each sob of pain is numbered,
And counted as for Thee.
Yea, closer, and yet closer,
Thy wounded one is prest;
And human woes are whispered
Upon a human breast.
Thy wounded one is prest;
And human woes are whispered
Upon a human breast.
Then in the solemn silence
I hear the whisper sweet,
"Fear not, My wounded soldier;
Behold My hands and feet!"
·····
The fever dream is over;
The tearless eyes can weep;
And He, whose arms enfold him,
Gives His beloved sleep.
I hear the whisper sweet,
"Fear not, My wounded soldier;
Behold My hands and feet!"
·····
The fever dream is over;
The tearless eyes can weep;
And He, whose arms enfold him,
Gives His beloved sleep.
Rest, rest, O wounded soldier!
Distrust thy Lord no more;
And think not strange the battle
Thy Captain fought before.
Distrust thy Lord no more;
And think not strange the battle
Thy Captain fought before.
He knows thy fierce accuser;
Thou shalt not fall nor yield;
Hold fast thy blood-red banner,
Thy bright sword, and thy shield.
Thou shalt not fall nor yield;
Hold fast thy blood-red banner,
Thy bright sword, and thy shield.
Behold thy strength in Jesus;
Believe thy Brother nigh,
Whose heart in love o'erfloweth
With tenderest sympathy.
Believe thy Brother nigh,
Whose heart in love o'erfloweth
With tenderest sympathy.
Thou hast no pain He feels not,
No pang He cannot share;
And when the fight was hottest,
Deliverance was near.
No pang He cannot share;
And when the fight was hottest,
Deliverance was near.
He kept thee in the conflict;
His shield was o'er thee thrown;
A Conqueror ne'er defeated,
Thy battle was His own.
His shield was o'er thee thrown;
A Conqueror ne'er defeated,
Thy battle was His own.
Rest in His love, and fear not;
The victory is won.
O weak and wounded soldier,
Thy Lord hath said, "Well done!"
The victory is won.
O weak and wounded soldier,
Thy Lord hath said, "Well done!"