IN THE GARDEN OF THE LORD

LAST night I dreamed the Master came to me and gently said,

“Beloved, lay thy cross aside, and come with me  awhile,

For I would have thee rest within the garden of the Lord.”

And then He took my trembling hand and led me  through the gloom

Until we came to where a massive gateway barred our path.—

 The gates were closed, but opened at the Master’s sweet command.

We entered, and the shadows fled before His radiant smile,—

 Oh, vision rapturous, can words be found to tell how fair!

Ten thousand roses beckoned with Love’s crimson hue, and round

About our feet the violets nestled in their purple grief;

While velvet pansies, clothed in royalty, together grew

With lovely, clinging, pink and white sweet peas, and  close beside,

The lilies of the valley bent in sweet humility,—

And everywhere, the tender grass, a carpet soft and cool.

And often as we passed, the Master’s hand with loving touch

    Did  rest upon some drooping flower, and lo!  at once it seemed         Refreshed.

At last we came to where a stately lily stood,

Its snowy crown uplifted like a chime of silvery bells,

Whose swaying filled the garden with a fragrance sweet and rare.

We closer drew, and then I saw, alas! how here and there

A petal fair was torn and brown, as though by some rude wind

Or scorching heat.

I wondered greatly at the sight, then turned,

The question on my lips,—when suddenly there rose a storm

So fierce that every flower in the garden bent its head;

And then a shower of flaming arrows, hurled by shadowy forms

Outside the garden’s ivy-covered walls, rained down  upon

The  lilies, while I clung in terror to my Heavenly Guide.

A moment only did the storm prevail, and then I heard

The  Master’s “Peace, be still!” The tempest ceased, and there was calm,

The  wondrous light grew dim, the garden vanished,— and I woke.

The Master had not spoken thus, and yet I seemed to know

The  fair dream-garden was a picture of His “little ones,

(He neither sleeps nor slumbers in His watch-care  over these),                 

And then the thought,—if in this garden I might choose my place,

Would I be like the rose?

Ah! no, lest in my passionate zeal

To show by works my heart of love, I should forget the thorns,

Dear Lord, and wound Thy loving hand! Ah! then, perhaps I would

The lily be, and sound Thy blessed Truth o’er land and sea

In clear-toned eloquence.

Ah! no, I might not bear the storms

That beat upon the one whose head Thou hast uplifted far

Above his fellows,—and a shining mark for Satan’s darts!

And thus I thought on each and all that garden’s lovely ones,

Then cried, “My blessed Lord, if I might choose,

Oh, let me be

The tender grass, that I may rest and soothe Thy weariness,—

A lowly place, safe-sheltered from the wind and fiery dart.—

What rapture this,—to lay down life itself beneath Thy feet!”

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