When I Stand at the Judgment Seat
When I stand at the judgment seat of Christ
And he shows me His plan for me;
The plan of my life as it might have been
Had He had His way, and I see
How I blocked Him here and I checked Him there
And I would not yield my will,
Shall I see grief in my Savior’s eyes;
Greif though He loves me still?
Oh, He’d have me rich, and I stand there poor,
Stripped of all but His grace,
While my memory runs like a hunted thing
Down the paths I can’t retrace.
Then my desolate heart will well-nigh break
With tears that I cannot shed.
I’ll cover my face with my empty hands
And bow my uncrowned head.
No. Lord of the years that are left to me
I yield them to Thy hand.
Take me, make me, mold me
To the pattern Thou hast planned.
The Secret
I met God in the morning
When my day was at its best
And his Presence came like sunrise,
Like a glory in my breast.
All day long the Presence lingered,
All day long he stayed with me,
And we sailed in perfect calmness
O’er a very troubled sea.
Other ships were blown and battered,
Other ships were sore distressed,
But the winds that seemed to drive them
Brought to us a peace and rest.
Then I thought of other mornings,
With a keen remorse of mind,
When I too had loosed the moorings,
With the Presence left behind.
So I think I know the secret,
Learned from many a troubled way:
You must seek him in the morning
If you want him through the day!
The Kingdom of GodO WORLD invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air– That we ask of the stars in motion If they have rumor of thee there? Not where the wheeling systems darken, And our benumbed conceiving soars!– The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places– Turn but a stone and start a wing! ‘Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces, That miss the many-splendored thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry–and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, Cry–clinging to Heaven by the hems; And lo, Christ walking on the water, Not of Genesareth, but Thames! Francis Thompson
