POISON-SEEDS

Is there, in you or me,
Seed of that poison-tree

Which, in its bitter fruiting, bore

Such vintage sore

Of red calamity—

Black wine of horror and of Death,

And soul-catastrophe ?

Search well and see!

Yea-search and see!

And, if there be

Tear up its roots with zealous care,

With deep soul-probing and with prayer,

Lest, in the coming years,

Again it bear

This same dread fruit of blood and tears,

And ruth beyond compare.

Each soul that strips it of one evil thing
Lifts all the world towards God's good purposing.

THE WAR-MAKERS

Who are the Makers of Wars?
The Kings of the earth.

And who are these Kings of the earth?
Only men-not always even men of worth,
Put claiming rule by right of birth.

And Wisdom?-does that come by birth?
Nay then-too often the reverse.
Wise father oft has son perverse;
Solomon's son was Israel's curse.

Why suffer things to reason so averse?
It always has been so,

And only now does knowledge grow
To that high point where all men know-
Who would be free must strike the blow.

And how long will man suffer so?
Until his soul of Freedom sings,
And, strengthened by his sufferings,
He breaks the worn-out leading-strings,

THE WAR-MAKERS (continued)

And calls to stricter reckonings
Those costliest things-unworthy Kings.

Not all are worthless. Some, with sense of duty, Strive to invest their lives with grace and beauty. To such-high honour! But the rest-self-seek

ers,

Pride-puffed-out with them!-useless mischiefmakers!

The time is past when any man or nation
Will meekly bear unrighteous domination.

The time is come when every burden-bearer
Must, in the fixing of his load, be sharer.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?

Is life worth living?

It depends on your believing;-
If it ends with this short span,
Then is man no better than
The beasts that perish.

But a Loftier Hope we cherish.
"Life out of Death" is written wide
Across Life's page on every side.

We cannot think as ended, our dear dead who died.

What room is left us then for doubt or fear?
Love laughs at thought of ending-there, or here.
God would lack meaning if this world were all,
And this short life but one long funeral.

God is! Christ loves! Christ lives!
And by His Own Returning gives

Sure pledge of Immortality.

The first-fruits-He; and we

The harvest of His victory.

The life beyond shall this life far transcend,
And Death is the Beginning-not the End!

GOD'S HANDWRITING

He writes in characters too grand
For our short sight to understand;
We catch but broken strokes, and try
To fathom all the mystery

Of withered hopes, of death, of life,
The endless war, the useless strife,-
But there, with larger, clearer sight,
We shall see this-

HIS WAY WAS RIGHT

(From Bees in Amber.)