November 3
Companions of the Way (Evening)I am He that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive for evermore.
NOW let me turn my gaze On Love's best archer, sorely bitten, thrown Aside by all his comrades, through amaze And anguish of his wound, to die alone; Yet he, sore-smitten archer, may not die! Forsaken, shunned, abhorred, and desolate, Yet shall his arrows win back victory, His bow arrest a doubtful combat's fate, And he shall conquer surely, conquering late.
He saith to us, "Awhile, A little while and ye shall see Me." Lo! On this our earth quick bitter harvests grow; So must Love's patience slowly reconcile, Pain, pleasure, death, together banded, mow, And reap, nor care to gather in their sheaves,— It is my God alone who waits and grieves; Slow is His agony, His guerdon slow.
DORA GREEN- WELL
THE GUEST