A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The History of a Soul (Eugène Manuel)
THE HISTORY OF A SOUL.
In secret from among the throng
God sometimes takes a soul,
And leads her slow, through grief and wrong,
Unswerving to her goal.
He chooses her to be His bride,
And gives her from His store,
Meek tenderness and lofty pride,
That she may feel the more.
He makes her poor, without a stay,
Desiring all men's good,
Searching the True, pure, pure alway,
But still, misunderstood.
Beneath a weight of pains and fears
He makes her often fall,
He nourishes her with bitter tears,
Unseen, unknown of all.
He spreads the clouds her head above,
He tries her hour by hour,
From Hate she suffers and from Love,
And owns of each the power.
God's rigour never, never sleeps.
She waits for peace? In vain.
She struggles or resigned weeps,
He strikes and strikes again.
In beings that she loves the most,
He wounds her, till half mad
She wanders like a restless ghost!
A problem strange and sad.
Thus stricken, reft of joy and light,
God makes her fair and clean,
Like an enamel hard and bright,
A sword of temper keen.
Subject to Adam's debt below,
And every curse and pain,
The Judge inflexible would know
If she will staunch remain.
Will she fight on 'gainst every ill?
Brave every storm? Stand fast,
Her lofty mission to fulfil,
With courage to the last?
And when He sees her ever true,
Like needle to the pole,
Upon His work He smiles anew,—
Thus forges God a soul.