THE HOLY MOUNT
Valdimar Briem (1848-1930)
8.6.8.6 D
When winds far-blown from realms of pain
Lash sorrow's storm-waves high,
Thou deemest, tossed on life's rough main,
That death looms threatening by:
Thou callest, "Christ, whose voice once curbed
With power the raging deep,
Where is Thy might? All-undisturbed
Thou liest, O Lord, asleep."
What though He seem to sleep? yea, e'en
To slight thine anguished cries?
Yield not to gaunt despair; serene
Against the danger rise.
He sleeps not. Nay! 'tis we that sleep:
Untouched by slumber's power
He watches. Would that we could keep
Such watch with Him one hour!
Behold Him rise in majesty!
Shame on thy faithless fears!
He stays the wind, He stills the sea,
From off the rocks He steers.
So watch, for 'tis Thy Lord's command,
Thyself in calm or strife;
For hard the task, and weak the hand,
And short the course of life.
Give heed to watch, give heed to pray,
But scorn thy guilty fear,
Though mighty billows night and day
Their threatening crests uprear.
What if untracked before thy face
The watery wastes expand?
The helm, through God's abounding grace,
Lies in thy Saviour's hand.
Midst black confusion of the storm,
Midst moan of winds, He hears;
And ever at the stern His Form,
Majestic, God-like steers;
Till onward past death's ice-bound strand,
Where pain's wild breakers foam,
He guides thee to that Blessed Land,
Anchored in endless home.
Valdimar Briem (1848-1930)
11.6.11.6 D
What though this weary earth-born flesh lie fettered
In prison-house of night?
The spirit rises heavenward, upward ranging
Toward the realms of light:
Up to the ray-crowned peak her Lord she follows,
With sin-purged eyes to scan
From that clear height the fair far-spreading vistas
Of God's redeeming plan.
Yea, though the flesh, far-sundered from the dawning,
Mid shades of death here lie,
The soul upon the mount of faith ascending
In prayer to heaven draws nigh.
So high that hill that in the darkling distance
Earth's troubles fade away;
Close, close at hand the high things and the holy
Stand forth in fair array.
Far, far below, down in the earth-girt valley,
Night broods upon the clod.
Look up! along the mountain crest is breaking
The glad sunrise of God.
There hidden things are plain; there, vision-gifted,
The eye may pierce the gloom
Which curtains time and space, yea, rend the blackness
That shrouds the unanswering tomb.
On earth insistent sing the siren voices
Which lure to carnal ease:
There reigns the silence of a dream, the stillness
Of the eternal peace.
Time's voices fade; in awe I hear the beating
Of God's great heart of love;
While on my breast the dews of healing quiet
Steal softly from above.
So on the mountain summit, domed in glory,
My pilgrim tent I'll raise:
'Tis good for me, thus close to God abiding,
To dwell through endless days;
To catch some beams of that divine effulgence
There from Christ's face outpoured,
Until my face transfigured glow reflecting
The glory of the Lord.
Then, when death comes, a cloud of mystic brightness
O'ershadowing shall draw near:
Within its folds soft calling, "My beloved,"
The Saviour's voice I'll hear.
Yea, though death's chill mist shroud life's flowery valley,
It hath no power to affright:
I raise mine eyes, and near me Jesus only
Stands in immortal light.