SERVANT of Christ! the hatred, scorn and shame,
Are precious tokens of His love for thee:
Think not for nothing thou must bear His Name,
Or that He holds thee from His suffering free:
Thy greatest honour to be made so vile—
Thy sweetest recompense His gracious smile!
Choose thou the path that leads to death and pain,
Familiar daily with contempt and loss;
Leave Him to choose what shall be fruit and gain,
His own Interpreter of every cross:
Remember none can preach the Christ that died
But he who with his Lord is crucified.
Think of His patient love that set thee free,
And bound thee to Himself in richest grace;
Count it all joy His willing slave to be
Who lowly took a servant’s form and place:
Be much alone in speech with Him, and then
Thou wilt not need the praise and smiles of men.
Be silent to the Lord; be much in prayer;
Contact with Jesus is the servant’s strength:
Let Him decide what stripes are thine to bear,
And what reward of peace shall grow at length:
Preach all the Word—to sinner and to saint;
And labour most when self is weak and faint.
Think not of rest while sinners love their sin,
And from the Gospel table wander wide,
Thine be the joy to lead the wanderers in
To hear of Him who for their ransom died:
Soon thou wilt hear the coming Master’s voice,
And dwell with Him for ever to rejoice.
Cricklewood.
WILLIAM WILEMAN.
Written on the top of Saddlecombe, near Brighton, Oct. 12th,
1908.