WHY do the little flock thus bleat, and why this plaintive wail
I hear among the lonely sheep in Baca’s desert vale?
Relentless death her sword unsheathed, and with a ruthless hand,
Did cut the silver cord which bound the fairest of their band.
Well may they weep and sadly mourn, the loss what can compare
To those who in the breach do stand, and Zion’s grief do share;
Ill could we spare this precious gift, so rich in every grace,
And fear among the sons of men no one shall fill his place.
We sorely miss his saintly face, a stranger in this land,
A champion in the cause of truth, one of a faithful band,
Whose heart was constantly provoked by his most single eye,
Through faith to rise above the earth, and see beyond the sky.
That voice is still we loved to hear at hillside, cot, and hall,
Declaring how the human race were ruined by the Fall;
In death they lay, ‘neath sin’s dark sway, no eye them pity gave,
Till God, in love, sent from above, His Son the lost to save.
The Christian race he ran with speed; as one the prize would gain,
And jealously his footsteps watched, lest he his garments stain.
His life was long, though short in years, in labouring much ’twas
blest,
While wide he sowed the seed of life o’er Scotland’s barren waste.
He’s now at home, set free from sin, where oft he longed to be,
Where work is done, and joy begun, beyond a stormy sea;
No darkness shall his visage dim, no cloud his soul can shade,
For on his head his Lord hath set a crown which ne’er can fade.
Shall we not plead the Lord alone, that He the breach would heal,
And for the sake of Zion’s poor, His right arm would reveal,
In sending forth His word with power, till every Dagon fall,
And Jacob, as a mighty prince, shall beat the mountains small?
EDINBURGH, February, 1901.
W. R. T. S.
THE pleader’s voice is silent now,
And not at eve, nor morn,
Are heard his notes of praise and prayer,
Beside the golden corn.
And far and near, they mourn for him,
Who was a man of might;
Recalled from Zion’s service, ere
His sun had reached its height.
The King desired his beauty, and
He hastily sent down
A messenger, to polish fair
His jewel for His crown.
He was like a lowly city,
And still a burning light;
While passing through earth’s valley,
He walked with God in white.
Ever faithful to transgressors,
Nor did reprove with hate,
Nor ever crouched to error, for
His meekness rode in state.
He would not have us praise himself,
But deep forgiving grace,
That swifter than his fellows made
Him run the heavenly race.
“Not unto us Lord, not to us,”
Is heaven’s holy song,
And if we think he’ll sing it best,
It cannot far be wrong.
So well he knew and loved the notes,
So humbled was his heart,
He’d be the very last to think
He earned the better part.
The waves, beside his sleeping place,
Now ever seem to tell,
He is not, for God took him, and
He hath done all things well.
And we know, for lack of service
There never shall be dearth,
Since Jesus Christ hath glorified
The Father on the earth.
C.