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A GRACIOUS PRINCE!

SOMEWHERE there is told a strange old story,
Of a grand young Prince of royal birth,
Who forsook His sceptre, crown and palace,
Just to mingle with the poor on earth:
Just to serve as lowliest of the lowly,
With a tender love unknown before,
Just to win the hearts of all the wretched,
And persuade them to His palace door.

For He longed to have their feet, all weary,
Find a rest upon His golden floor;
Yearned to spread a banquet for the fainting,
That they might not hunger any more;
Open all His secret, priceless treasures,
Even give the best that was His own,
Clothe them in His robes of beamy splendour,
And invite them to his kingly throne.

So it came: His feet were often weary
With the way—that others might find rest;
And His crownless head at night unpillowed,
That other heads might pillow on His breast.
And the midnight of His soul grew blacker,
‘Neath the shadow of the olived gloom;
That other souls might catch the sunny glory
Falling from a grand, eternal noon.

It was He who opened living fountains,
While He drank the wormwood and the gall;
It was He who hushed His own heart’s crying,
Just to hear another’s feeble call.
He could give a crown of lovingkindness,
And himself be crowned with cruel scorn;
He could put on other brows a glory,
While His own still wore the stinging thorn.

While He gave the joy of heaven to others,
He himself was crushed to earth with woe;
And He spoke His words of consolation,
From an inner anguish none could know.
When the Father raised His face of glory,
And the shades of death came o’er His eyes,
He could turn to help a soul belated,
Groping for the Gates of Paradise.

Heaven and earth have taught us whispered lessons,
From the depths beneath, and heights above;
But the clear voice of the princely Teacher,
Spans the ages with its chords of love.
‘Tis His voice that calls us to His service,
‘Tis His hand that reaches down to lead,
‘Tis He bids us set our feet, well sandalled,
In the very footprints He has made.

Everywhere “His lowly” need our caring,
All around “His blinded” need our sight;
Many a soul sits darkly in grief-shadows,
Waiting for our hand to bring the light.
Hiding deeply all our selfish sorrows,
‘Neath a love that “seeketh not her own,”
Filling sunny hours with heavenly service,
We shall hear at twilight His ‘Well done!’
—Alice W. Milligan.

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— May 15, 1893 —