By:
Edited by Heyman Wreford
It seems scarce past—that Summer morn—
When first our class of seven
Sat waiting for a willing guide,
To lead our steps toward heaven.
She came at length, a matron tall,
With reverence in her eyes,
And measured were the accents all
That proved her passing wise.
Of Abraham, the friend of God,
Of Jacob, strong in prayer,
Of David’s harp, and Aaron’s rod,
She spoke with solemn air.
She taught us calmly, week by week,
Yet scarcely breathed the love
Of Him who came the lost to seek,
The Shepherd from above.
Another filled her vacant place ―
An elder, learned as well.
On doctrines, Catechisms, creeds,
Did he profoundly dwell.
He quoted Paul and Timothy;
He made distinctions clear;
Yet listened we with hardening hearts
Throughout the dreary year.
When he was gone, a gentle maid,
With glances bright as spring,
And heart low fluttering in its nest,
In words that seemed to sing.
Began the tale of Bethlehem’s Babe,
The life all strange and lowly
That led at length to Calvary’s Cross,
The Just One and the Holy.
We sat with her on Sychar’s well,
We saw the lepers’ healing;
It seemed as though our very souls
In Golgotha were kneeling;
We followed, while she led the way
To Olivet’s glad story,
Then tarried, watching on the mount
For Christ the Prince of Glory!
M. J. P.