Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MINISTRY OF SONG, by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL Poet's Biography First Line: In god's great field of labour Last Line: To praise him and rejoice. Subject(s): Children; Clergy; Praise; Prayer; Singing & Singers; Childhood; Priests; Rabbis; Ministers; Bishops; Songs | ||||||||
PRELUDE AMID the broken waters of our ever-restless thought, Oh, be my verse an answering gleam from higher radiance caught; That where through dark o'erarching boughs of sorrow, doubt, and sin, The glorious Star of Bethlehem upon the flood looks in, Its tiny trembling ray may bid some downcast vision turn To that enkindling Light, for which all earthly shadows yearn. Oh, be my verse a hidden stream, which silently may flow Where drooping leaf and thirsty flower in lonely valleys grow; And often by its shady course to pilgrim hearts be brought The quiet and refreshment of an upward-pointing thought; Till, blending with the broad bright stream of sanctified endeavor, God's glory be its ocean home, the end it seeketh ever. THE MINISTRY OF SONG IN God's great field of labor All work is not the same; He hath a service for each one Who loves His holy name. And you, to whom the secrets Of all sweet sounds are known, Rise up! for He hath called you To a mission of your own. And, rightly to fulfill it, His grace can make you strong, Who to your charge hath given The Ministry of Song. Sing to the little children, And they will listen well; Sing grand and holy music, For they can feel its spell. Tell them the tale of Jephthah; Then sing them what he said, -- "Deeper and deeper still," and watch How the little cheek grows red, And the little breath comes quicker: They will ne'er forget the tale, Which the song has fastened surely, As with a golden nail. I remember, late one evening, How the music stopped, for, hark! Charlie's nursery door was open, He was calling in the dark: "Oh, no! I am not frightened, And I do not want a light; But I cannot sleep for thinking Of the song you sang last night. Something about a 'valley,' And 'make rough places plain,' And 'Comfort ye;' so beautiful! Oh, sing it me again!" Sing at the cottage bedside; They have no music there, And the voice of praise is silent After the voice of prayer. Sing of the gentle Saviour In the simplest hymns you know, And the pain-dimmed eye will brighten As the soothing verses flow. Better than loudest plaudits The murmured thanks of such, For the King will stoop to crown them With His gracious "Inasmuch." Sing, where the full-toned organ Resounds through aisle and nave, And the choral praise ascendeth In concord sweet and grave. Sing, where the village voices Fall harshly on your ear; And, while more earnestly you join, Less discord you will hear. The noblest and the humblest Alike are "common praise," And not for human ear alone The psalm and hymn we raise. Sing in the deepening twilight, When the shadow of eve is nigh, And the purple and golden pinions Fold o'er the western sky. Sing in the silver silence, While the first moonbeams fall; So shall your power be greater Over the hearts of all. Sing till you bear them with you Into a holy calm, And the sacred tones have scattered Manna, and myrrh, and balm. Sing! that your song may gladden; Sing like the happy rills, Leaping in sparkling blessing Fresh from the breezy hills. Sing! that your song may silence The folly and the jest, And the "idle word" be banished As an unwelcome guest. Sing! that your song may echo After the strain is past, A link of the love-wrought cable That holds some vessel fast. Sing to the tired and anxious; It is yours to fling a ray, Passing indeed, but cheering, Across the rugged way. Sing to God's holy servants, Weary with loving toil, Spent with their faithful labor On oft ungrateful soil. The chalice of your music All reverently bear, For with the blessed angels Such ministry you share. When you long to bear the Message Home to some troubled breast, Then sing with loving fervor, "Come unto Him, and rest." Or would you whisper comfort Where words bring no relief, Sing how "He was despised, Acquainted with our grief." And, aided by His blessing, The song may win its way Where speech had no admittance, And change the night to day. Sing, when His mighty mercies And marvellous love you feel, And the deep joy of gratitude Springs freshly as you kneel; When words, like morning starlight, Melt powerless, -- rise and sing! And bring your sweetest music To Him, your gracious King. Pour out your song before Him To whom our best is due; Remember, He who hears your prayer Will hear your praises too. Sing on in grateful gladness! Rejoice in this good thing Which the Lord thy God hath given thee, The happy power to sing. But yield to Him, the Sovereign To whom all gifts belong, In fullest consecration Your Ministry of Song, Until His mercy grant you That resurrection voice, Whose only ministry shall be To praise Him and rejoice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE APOLLO TRIO by CONRAD AIKEN BAD GIRL SINGING by MARK JARMAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 4 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 5 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE IS LIKE THE SCENT OF SYRINGA by MINA LOY CONSECRATION HYMN by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL I DID THIS FOR THEE! WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME? by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY FATHER, 1860 by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL |
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