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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421172" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Fourth Sunday After Easter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My Saviour, can it ever be<br>That I should gain by losing Thee?<br>The watchful mother tarries nigh,<br>Though sleep have closed her infant's eye;<br>For should he wake, and find her gone.<br>She knows she could not bear his moan.<br>But I am weaker than a child,<br> And Thou art more than mother dear;<br>Without Thee Heaven were but a wild;<br> How can I live without Thee here!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;'Tis good for you, that I should go,<br>&quot;You lingering yet awhile below;&quot; -<br>'Tis Thine own gracious promise, Lord!<br>Thy saints have proved the faithful word,<br>When heaven's bright boundless avenue<br>Far opened on their eager view,<br>And homeward to Thy Father's throne,<br> Still lessening, brightening on their sight,<br>Thy shadowy car went soaring on;<br> They tracked Thee up th' abyss of light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou bidd'st rejoice; they dare not mourn,<br>But to their home in gladness turn,<br>Their home and God's, that favoured place,<br>Where still He shines on Abraham's race,<br>In prayers and blessings there to wait<br>Like suppliants at their Monarch's gate,<br>Who bent with bounty rare to aid<br> The splendours of His crowning day,<br>Keeps back awhile His largess, made<br> More welcome for that brief delay:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In doubt they wait, but not unblest;<br>They doubt not of their Master's rest,<br>Nor of the gracious will of Heaven -<br>Who gave His Son, sure all has given -<br>But in ecstatic awe they muse<br>What course the genial stream may choose,<br>And far and wide their fancies rove,<br> And to their height of wonder strain,<br>What secret miracle of love<br> Should make their Saviour's going gain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The days of hope and prayer are past,<br>The day of comfort dawns at last,<br>The everlasting gates again<br>Roll back, and, lo! a royal train -<br>From the far depth of light once more<br>The floods of glory earthward pour:<br>They part like shower-drops in mid air,<br> But ne'er so soft fell noon-tide shower,<br>Nor evening rainbow gleamed so fair<br> To weary swains in parched bower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame<br>Through cloud and breeze unwavering came,<br>And darted to its place of rest<br>On some meek brow of Jesus blest.<br>Nor fades it yet, that living gleam,<br>And still those lambent lightnings stream;<br>Where'er the Lord is, there are they;<br> In every heart that gives them room,<br>They light His altar every day,<br> Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soft as the plumes of Jesus' Dove<br>They nurse the soul to heavenly love;<br>The struggling spark of good within,<br>Just smothered in the strife of sin,<br>They quicken to a timely glow,<br>The pure flame spreading high and low.<br>Said I, that prayer and hope were o'er?<br> Nay, blessed Spirit! but by Thee<br>The Church's prayer finds wings to soar,<br> The Church's hope finds eyes to see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, fainting soul, arise and sing;<br>Mount, but be sober on the wing;<br>Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer,<br>Be sober, for thou art not there;<br>Till Death the weary spirit free,<br>Thy God hath said, 'Tis good for thee<br>To walk by faith and not by sight:<br> Take it on trust a little while;<br>Soon shalt thou read the mystery right<br> In the full sunshine of His smile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or if thou yet more knowledge crave,<br>Ask thine own heart, that willing slave<br>To all that works thee woe or harm<br>Shouldst thou not need some mighty charm<br>To win thee to thy Saviour's side,<br>Though He had deigned with thee to bide?<br>The Spirit must stir the darkling deep,<br> The Dove must settle on the Cross,<br>Else we should all sin on or sleep<br> With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keble">John Keble</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421172" data-title="Fourth Sunday After Easter de John Keble" data-description="My Saviour, can it ever be
That I should gain by losing Thee?
The watchful mother tarries nigh,
Though sleep have closed her infant's eye;
For should he wake, and find her gone.
She knows she could not bear his moan.
But I am weaker than a child,
..."></div>
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