Poems (Shipton)/The Prisoner of the Lord

Poems
by Anna Shipton
The Prisoner of the Lord
4502805Poems — The Prisoner of the LordAnna Shipton

THE PRISONER OF THE LORD.

Psalm cxlvi. 8. Sol. Song ii. 14.

"Many are reaping the harvest-fields,
And I lie here alone,
Counting the time by the dreary night:
Oh, when will the day be gone?

"Some lead the flock to the mountain-height,
And some to the dewy lawn;
And the fishers their nets from the silvery tide,
The weight of their spoil have drawn;

"But I lie here with my yearning heart,
On labor I long to share;
My lattice is dark, and heavy my chain,
And fetters I still must wear."

The plaint had ceased from the maiden's lips,
When over the mountains spread
A ray more bright than the morning star;
It gleamed on a scroll unread.

A scroll that told of a Father's love,
Of His might, His way, and His will,
Of the faithful Friend who never forsakes,
The Master who loves her still.

Light fell on her tears, on her cheek so wan,
And now on her garments white,
As she watched the stars as they rose and set
In the shade of the deepening night.

A darker gloom had shadowed her brow
Than ever was there before,
When a cry arose, "The Master is come!
He stands at the bolted door."

Oh, gentle the voice of that midnight Guest,
And tender the Friend that came
To open her lattice and tune her harp,
And call His child by her name.

"Yea, some arc afar on the waters wide,
And some on the mountain's height;
But couldst thou not watch one hour with Me
In the shade of the silent night?

"I came with the cloud that covered thy earth,
And thy lips have ceased to sing;
I sent the mist on thy brain, and quelled
Thy fair imagining.

"O child of my love! thy chain I wrought,
And soon shalt thou lay it by;
In my Father's house thou shalt bless the day
Of thy brief captivity.

"Thy brethren toil in fields afar,
And long for thy harp's sweet tone,
But hidden within my sanctuary,
Thy service hath well been done.

"My wanderers rest 'neath the sea-girt rock
To list to the minstrel's strain,
And hearts bowed down by their earthly toil
Take courage and hope again.

"But—give me thy harp—'tis all unstrung;
Go forth to thy chosen lot;
The Master has need of His prison bird,
But the prisoner heeds Him not!

"Choose now what seemeth the better part,
And glad may thy service be;
But never so dear in the sunny noon
As thy midnight song to me."

The fetters fell from the maiden's hands
As the midnight Guest drew nigh;
The threshold is past—she standeth free
In the joy of liberty!

One moment she gazed on the wounded Hand
That opened the bolted door;
Then back she turned to her star-lit cell,
And the chain she weeping wore.

The prison was changed to a banquet-hall
(And the banner that waved was " Love ");
'Twas paved with the mercies of bygone years,
Ere her foolish heart could rove.

Like diamonds sparkled her fetters then,
As silk was her iron chain;
She kissed each link with its chiselled gem,
And welcomed them back again.

"How sweet is the bondage!" the maiden cried,
To the fetters of old restored;
" I am not alone in my midnight watch:
My Keeper is Christ my Lord!"

Her harp is tuned by the Master's hand,
For His prisoner's songs below;
And sweeter the lesson of Jesus' love
Than ever the freed can know.