'All's Well!' by John Oxenham (free novel reading sites txt) 📖

id="id00422">  Like the men of old, we vote His death,
  Lest His life should interfere
  With the things we have, or the things we crave,
  Or the things we hold more dear.

  Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
  As He stood in the days of old.
  Let each man tax his soul and say,—
  "Shall I again my Lord betray
  For my greed, or my goods, or my gold?"

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER? (A WARNING)

  "Am I my brother's keeper?"
  Yes, of a truth!
  Thine asking is thine answer.
  That self-condemning cry of Cain
  Has been the plea of every selfish soul since then,
  Which hath its brother slain.
  God's word is plain,
  And doth thy shrinking soul arraign.

  Thy brother's keeper?
  Yea, of a truth thou art!
  For if not—who?
  Are ye not both,—both thou and he
  Of God's great family?
  How rid thee of thy soul's responsibility?
  For every ill in all the world
  Each soul is sponsor and account must bear.
  And He, and he thy brother of despair,
  Claim, of thy overmuch, their share.

  Thou hast had good, and he the strangled days;
  But now,—the old things pass.
  No longer of thy grace
  Is he content to live in evil case
  For the anointing of thy shining face.
  The old things pass.—Beware lest ye pass with them,
  And your place
  Become an emptiness!

  Beware! Lest, when the "Have-nots" claim,
  From those who have, their rightful share,
  Thy borders be swept bare
  As by the final flame.
  Better to share before than after.
  "After?" … For thee may be no after!
  Only the howl of mocking laughter
  At thy belated care. Make no mistake!—
  "After" will be too late.
  When once the "Have-nots" claim … they take.
  "After!" … When that full claim is made,
  You and your golden gods may all lie dead.

  Set now your house in order,
  Ere it be too late!
  For, once the storm of hate
  Be loosed, no man shall stay it till
  Its thirst has slaked its fill,
  And you, poor victims of this last "too late,"
  Shall in the shadows mourn your lost estate.

A TELEPHONE MESSAGE (TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN)

  Hello! Hello!
  Are you there? Are you there?
  Ah! That you? Well,—
  This is just to tell you
  That there's trouble in the air…
  Trouble,—
  T-R-O-U-B-L-E—Trouble!
  Where?
  In the air.
  Trouble in the air!
  Got that? … Right!
  Then—take a word of warning,
  And … Beware!

  What trouble?
  Every trouble,—everywhere,
  Every wildest kind of nightmare
  That has ridden you is there,
  In the air.
  And it's coming like a whirlwind,
  Like a wild beast mad with hunger,
  To rend and wrench and tear,—
  To tear the world in pieces maybe,
  Unless it gets its share.
  Can't you see the signs and portents?
  Can't you feel them in the air?
  Can't you see,—you unbeliever?
  Can't you see?—or don't you care,—
  That the Past is gone for ever,
  Past your uttermost endeavour,—
  That To-day is on the scrap-heap,
  And the Future—anywhere?

  Where?
  Ah—that's beyond me!—
  But it lies with those who dare
  To think of big To-morrows,
  And intend to have their share.

  All the things you've held and trusted
  Are played-out, decayed, and rusted;
  Now, in fiery circumstance,
  They will all be readjusted.
  If you cling to those old things,
  Hoping still to hold the strings,
  And, for your ungodly gains,
  Life to bind with golden chains;—
  Man! you're mightily mistaken!
  From such dreams you'd best awaken
  To the sense of what is coming,
  When you hear the low, dull booming
  Of the far-off tocsin drums.
  —Such a day of vast upsettings,
  Dire outcastings and downsettings!—
  You have held the reins too long,—
  Have you time to heal the wrong?

  What's wrong? What's amiss?
  Man alive! If you don't know that—
  There's nothing more to be said!
  —You ask what's amiss when your destinies
  Hang by a thread in the great abyss?
  What's amiss? What's amiss?—
  Well, my friend, just this,—
  There's a bill to pay and it's due to-day,
  And before it's paid you may all be dead.
  Wake up! Wake up!—or, all too late,
  You will find yourselves exterminate.

  What's wrong?
  Listen here!—
  Do you catch a sound like drumming?—
  Far-away and distant drumming?
  You hear it? What?
  The wires humming?
  No, my friend, it is not!
  It's the tune the prentice-hands are thrumming,—
  The tune of the dire red time that's coming,—
  The far-away, pregnant, ghostly booming
  Of the great red drums' dread drumming.
  For they're coming, coming, coming,—
  With their dread and doomful drumming,
  Unless you…
  Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r—click—clack!

THE STARS' ACCUSAL

      How can the makers of unrighteous wars
      Stand the accusal of the watchful stars?

  To stand—
  A dust-speck, facing the infinitudes
  Of Thine unfathomable dome, a night like this,—
  To stand full-face to Thy High Majesties,
  Thy myriad worlds in solemn watchfulness,—
  Watching, watching, watching all below,
  And man in all his wilfulness for woe!
  —Dear Lord, one wonders that Thou bearest still
  With man on whom Thou didst such grace bestow,
  And with his wilful faculty for woe!

  Those sleepless sentinels! They may be worlds
  All peopled like our own. But, as I stand,
  They are to me the myriad eyes of God,—
  Watching, watching, watching all below,
  And man in all his wilfulness for woe.
  And then—to think
  What those same piercing eyes look down upon
  Elsewhere on this fair earth that Thou hast made!—
  Watching, watching, watching all below,
  And man in all his wilfulness for woe.

  —On all the desolations he hath wrought,
  —On all the passioned hatreds he hath taught,
  —On all Thy great hopes he hath brought to nought;—
  —Man rending man with ruthless bitterness,
  —Blasting Thine image into nothingness,
  —Hounding Thy innocents to awful deaths,
  And worse than deaths! Happy the dead, who sped
  Before the torturers their lust had fed!
  —On Thy Christ crucified afresh each day,
  —On all the horrors of War's grim red way.
  And ever, in Thy solemn midnight skies,
  Those myriad, sleepless, vast accusing eyes,—
  Watching, watching, watching all below,
  And man in all his wilfulness for woe.

  Dear Lord!—
  When in our troubled hearts we ponder this,
  We can but wonder at Thy wrath delayed,—
  We can but wonder that Thy hand is stayed,—
  We can but wonder at Thy sufferance
  Of man, whom Thou in Thine own image made,
  When he that image doth so sore degrade!

  If Thou shouldst blot us out without a word,
  Our stricken souls must say we had incurred
  Just punishment.
  Warnings we lacked not, warnings oft and clear,
  But in our arrogance we gave no ear
  To Thine admonishment.
  And yet,—and yet! O Lord, we humbly pray,—
  Put back again Thy righteous Judgment Day!
  Have patience with us yet a while, until
  Through these our sufferings we learn Thy Will.

NO PEACE BUT A RIGHT PEACE

  An inconclusive peace!—
  A peace that would be no peace—
  Naught but a treacherous truce for breeding
  Of a later, greater, baser-still betrayal!—
  "No!" …
  The spirits of our myriad valiant dead,
  Who died to make peace sure and life secure,
  Thunder one mighty cry of righteous indignation,—
  One vast imperative, unanswerable "No!" …
  "Not for that, not for that, did we die!"—
  They cry;—
  "—To give fresh life to godless knavery!
  —To forge again the chains of slavery
  Such as humanity has never known!
  We gave our lives to set Life free,
  Loyally, willingly gave we,
  Lest on our children, and on theirs,
  Should come like misery.
  And now, from our souls' heights and depths,
  We cry to you,—"Beware,
  Lest you defraud us of one smallest atom of the price
  Of this our sacrifice!
  One fraction less than that full liberty,
  Which comes of righteous and enduring peace,
  Will be betrayal of your trust,—
  Betrayal of your race, the world, and God."

IN CHURCH. 1916

  Where are all the young men?
  There are only grey-heads here.
  What has become of the young men?

* * * * *

  This is the young men's year!
  They are gone, one and all, at duty's call,
  To the camp, to the trench, to the sea.
  They have left their homes, they have left their all,
  And now, in ways heroical,—
              They are making history.
  From bank and shop, from bench and mill,
  From the schools, from the tail of the plough,
  They hurried away at the call of the fray,
  They could not linger a day, and now,—
              They are making history,
  And we miss them sorely, as we look
  At the seats where they used to be,
  And try to picture them as they are,—
  Then hastily drop the vail:—for, you see,—
              They are making history.

* * * * *

  And history, in these dread days,
  Is sore sore sad in the making;
  We are building the future with our dead,
  We are binding it sure with the brave blood shed,
  Though our hearts are well-nigh breaking.
  We can but pray that the coming day
  Will reap, of our red sowing,
  The harvest meet of a world complete
  With the peace of God's bestowing.
  So, with quiet heart, we do our part
  In the travail of this mystery,
  We give of our best, and we leave the rest
              To Him Who maketh history.

      Some Hymns of Thanksgiving,
    Praise, and Petition for use at The
    Coming Peace which, please God,
    cannot now be long delayed.

TE DEUM

  We thank Thee, O our God, for this
  Long fought-for, hoped-for, prayed-for peace;
  Thou dost cast down, and Thou upraise,
  Thy hand doth order all our ways.

  Lift all our hearts to nobler life,
  For ever freed from fear of strife;
  Let all men everywhere in Thee
  Possess their souls in liberty.

  Safe in Thy Love we leave our dead;
  Heal all the wounds that war has made.
  And help us to uproot each wrong,
  Which still among us waxeth strong.

  Break all the bars that hold apart
  All men of nobler mind and heart;
  Let all men find alone in Thee
  Their one and only sovereignty!

TUNE—Old Hundredth.

THROUGH ME ONLY

  Out of all the reek and turmoil
  Of the dreadful battle-plain,
  Came a voice insistent, calling,
  Calling, calling, but in vain;—
            "Through Me only
  Shall the world have peace again."

  But our hearts were too sore-burdened,
  Fighting foes and fighting pain,
  And we heeded not the clear voice,
  Calling, calling all in vain;—
            "Through Me only
  Shall the world have peace again."

  Now, at last, the warfare ended,
  Dead the passion, loosed the strain,
  Louder still that voice is calling;
  Shall it call and call in vain?
            "Through Me only
  Shall the world have peace again."

  Now we hear it; now we hearken,
  In the silence of our slain,
  Broken hearts new homes would build them
  Of the fragments that remain.
            "Through Me only
  Shall the world have peace again."

  Lord, we know it by our sorrows,
  Might of man can ne'er attain
  That Thou givest. Now we offer
  Thee the Kingship. Come and reign!
            Through Thee only
  Shall our loss be turned to gain.

  Show us, Lord, all Thou would'st have us
  Do to garner all Thy grain.
  Thy deep ploughing, Thy sure sowing
  Richest harvest shall obtain.
            Only come Thou,
  Come and dwell with us again!

TUNE—Abbeycombe.

PRINCE OF PEACE

  O Thou who standest both for God and Man,
  O King of Kings, who wore no earthly crown,
  O Prince of Peace, unto Thy feet we come,
            And lay our burden down.

  The weight had grown beyond our strength to bear,
  Thy Love alone the woful thrall can break,
  Thy Love, reborn into this world of care,
            Alone can life remake.

  How shall we turn to good this weight of ill?
  How of our sorrows build anew to Thee?
  "Of your own selves ye cannot stand or build,—
            Only through Me,—through Me!"

  O, turn once more to Thee the hearts of men,
  Work through the leaven of our grief and pain,
  Let not these agonies be all in vain,
            Come, dwell with us again!

  The world has nailed itself unto its cross;
  O, tender to Thy hands its heart will prove,
  For Thou alone canst heal its dreadful loss,—
            Come Thou and reign in love!

  Peace and the sword, Lord, Thou didst come to bring;
  Too long the sword has drunk to Thy decrease.
  Come now, by this high way of suffering,
            And reign, O Prince of Peace!

  TUNE—Artavia.
       "And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee?"

THE WINNOWING

  Lord, Thou hast stricken us, smitten us sore,
  Winnowed us fine on the dread threshing-floor.
            "Had I not reason?—far you had strayed,
            Vain was My calling, you would not be stayed."

  Low in the dust, Lord, our hearts now are bowed,
  Roughly Thy share through our boasting has ploughed.
            "So as My ploughing prepares for the seed,
            So shall the harvest our best hopes exceed."

  Lord, we have lost of our dearest and best,
  Flung to the void and cast out to