[On looking over the pages of an old journal.]
How strange it seems, while turning o'er the leaves
Of an old journal, kept in by-gone days,
To look again upon the distant past;-
The present scenes around us all so changed;
The actors and the imagery all gone,
That then awakened the inmost springs
Of thought and feeling, stirring up the depths
Of the heart's passions; all its hopes and fears,
Its lofty aspirations after good,
And its sad consciousness of inward ill,-
All that excited them to joy or sorrow,
Now gone forever ... ...
Oh, could we live again
Our past life over, with our present ken
Of what is wise, and right, and false, and true;
Of all the hidden dangers in our way;
Of all the wiles that would ensnare our feet,
And cast us down, or mar our gust for good:
How wisely would we tread the mazy path;
And oh, how different would the feelings be,
From what recorded in these tablets lies.
It cannot be. The past is fixed forever:
Each word, and step, and act, whate'er its form,
Unchangeable, unchangeably remains.
It cannot be recalled by all our wishing;
Naught can erase it, naught can modify;
The ill remains, the same remains forever-
How solemn is the thought! Conscience may sleep;
The memory slumber; and forgetfulness,
For a short moment make the past appear
As if it were not: but it sleeps to wake,
And fill the guilty soul with shame and trembling,
And dread forebodings of the judgment-day;
When secret things shall all discovered lie,
In the clear searching blaze of cloudless light.
Oh, who could bear the awful retrospect?
Who dare look forward, were there not revealed
A full atonement made for sin and guilt,
And blotting out the record from the page
Of the great Doomsday Book? How could we meet
The searching light of that omniscient eye,
That sees it all, just as it was, in all
Its naked and unvarnished truthfulness....
The present let us seek to use more wisely,
Before it be the past: and this is wisdom-
Wisdom through past, and present, and to come-
And all beside is but the depths of folly;
To live to Him, whose yoke is light and easy,
Because a yoke lined with eternal love.
The time is short for work; the night is coming,
When we no more can labor for our Master;
No more by suffering, in our path of service,
Our loyalty and faithful zeal approve.
His time of absence is the time of trial;
Earth is the scene for conflict and endurance;
Eternity is long enough for rest.
Now is the time allotted us for labor:
Let us then study to redeem its moments,
And fill them up with deeds of love and duty;
That word of charge still spurring up our spirits,
“Till I come, occupy.”
How soon may be His advent! Are we ready?
Has not the watchman loudly cried at midnight,
“Behold the Bridegroom cometh! Go ye forth
To meet Him, with your lamps all burning clear
And loins with girdles on?" Are we awake?
Are we responding, with our hearts all beating,
“Amen, O Lord; yea, quickly come, Lord Jesus"?