POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2381, 19 November 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

IMPORTUNITY. He standeth knocking at the door, “Oh Lord ! how long ? how long ? Weeping, Thy patienoe I adore, And yet the bars are strong. Lord, draw them for mo, for my hand is weak, The night is chill. Enter Thou till the streak Of ruddy morning flush the day’* young cheek!' Ho standeth knocking, knocking still, “ Sweet, pleading voice, I hoar j” The mist is rolling from the hill, The fourth slow watch is near; Through the small lattice I behold his face, In the cold starlight, full of pitying grace; Yet—how to guest him in so moan a place ? He standeth knocking, knocking loud! Yes ! for tho timbers creak ; Eastward there low’rs an angry cloud; “ Sweet Saviour, hear me speak ; Oh, hide not there to feel the drenching rain! I bid Thee welcome, hut in grief and pain Tell thee my strength against these bars is vain.” Ho standeth knocking, knocking oft, Tho day of grace wears on, Tho chiding spirit whispers soft, “ Perchance Ee may bo gone Whilst thou still lingereat.” “ Not the bars alone Keep Thee out, Lord, against tho door is thrown Sand bags of care and hoarded gains and stone.” He standeth knocking, knocking faint, “ Blest Saviour, leave me not; But let me tell Thee my complaint, The misery of my lot; And let me sweep the floor Thy feet must press. Deck myself royally for Thy caress, Make myself worthy ere Thou stoop to bless ? ” He standeth knocking, knocking still, “ Lord help mo in my doubt, May I put forth this feeble will To draw Thee from without ? Then help my weakness.” Hear each stern bar give. Tho door flies backward. He but whispers “ Live ! ” While on Hia patient breast I, weeping, plead “ Forgive ! ” —“Good Words - ”