POETRY.
THE NARROW LANE.
IN a narrow lane I stood:
Rescue there was none: And the enemy of good Blotted out the sun.
He that wooed me as a friend Strung his iron bow, Swiftly came to make an end In a single blow.
Chose an arrow dipped in gall (Hatred on his brow), Slow the mocking words let fall: " Fool, I have thee now."
Swift the bitter arrow sped, Cleft my heart in twain : So he left me there for dead In the narrow lane.
As I lay in mortal pain, Gasping nigh to death, One came walking up the lane, Jesus of Nazareth.
He was clad in simple white, Lifting hands to bless, And about Him shone the light Of His holiness.
He came near, and passed not by, Stayed upon His way : Hope sprang up, I knew not why, As forlorn I lay. All forlorn and lost was I In that lonely place, But He stooped and tenderly Looked upon my face.
Staunched the life blood with a touch, Healed the grievous sore, Saying : " I have loved thee much.
Go, and sin no more."
Then I climbed, for so He bade, Up the rocky side, Slipping still, but undismayed, To a champaign wide, Where the winds of God are free, Where the sun above, And the sweet stars looked on me With a silent love.
Where I was alone with Him, He with me alone, And though mortal sight be dim, I am stronger grown.
For His spirit-searching eyes Quicken heart and brain, And blot out the memories Of the narrow lane.
E. D. S.
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