Poems (Helen Jenkins)/Out in the Storm
For works with similar titles, see Out in the Storm.
OUT IN THE STORM.
A storm is raging in fury without,
And wildly the snow-wreaths whirl about.
The weird, wind-voices sad I hear,
Like tones of grief or cries of fear.
A piteous moan, or a bitter wail
Comes surging along on every gale,
Till suffering millions seem to sigh
In a mingled note of agony;
While Want and Cold, with their icy breath,
Drag them along to the verge of death.
And I sit list'ning, dreaming here,
Till faces wan through the windows peer,—
For Poverty stalks abroad. We know
That thousands struggle with want and woe,
Despair and crime; and God pity them!
For the world sees only to condemn,
And thrusts them out from the warmth and light
Of joy and love into darkest night.
And wildly the snow-wreaths whirl about.
The weird, wind-voices sad I hear,
Like tones of grief or cries of fear.
A piteous moan, or a bitter wail
Comes surging along on every gale,
Till suffering millions seem to sigh
In a mingled note of agony;
While Want and Cold, with their icy breath,
Drag them along to the verge of death.
And I sit list'ning, dreaming here,
Till faces wan through the windows peer,—
For Poverty stalks abroad. We know
That thousands struggle with want and woe,
Despair and crime; and God pity them!
For the world sees only to condemn,
And thrusts them out from the warmth and light
Of joy and love into darkest night.
Gaily, by many a glowing hearth,
Children are playing in joyous mirth.
What care they for the bitterest storm
In their cheery home-life, snug and warm?
With a good-night kiss and a trustful prayer,
They fall asleep, with no thought or care
For the suffering little ones around,
Who listen, perhaps, to the joyous sound
Of their voices in play, their laugh and song,
Till, heartsick and weary, they hurry along
Their desolate way so dark, so drear.
Their piteous pleadings I surely hear:
"Saviour is thy mission ended,
To the Father now ascended?
Is thy uplifting hand withdrawn?
Fiends to crime are beckoning on.
Lord, in mercy hear our cry,
Crushed by want and misery!"
Jesus speaks with accents loving,
Each impatient thought reproving:
"You may not our fullness see,—
I in God, and He in me.
Nothing lost, O holy Father!
All Thou gavest I will gather,
And will raise them up again,
Without blemish, spot or stain.
Willingly I would not grieve them;
I will ne'er forsake or leave them."
With joy, men must this truth receive,
Who o'er lost sinners mourn and grieve.
"Be merciful!" they beg and plead:
Lookup and shout for joy instead!
Even we would save all men from sin,
And bring the vilest wanderer in!
If such compassion be divine,
Dare I compare Christ's love with mine?
Can adding our poor mite of love
God's infinite compassion move?
We have His promise ever sure,
His love and mercy shall endure.
Knowing His boundless love and care,
We trust His goodness here, and there
Where is no storm, no cold or night,
No lonely outcasts from the light,
No aching hearts, no weary sigh,—
But love and joy and harmony.
Children are playing in joyous mirth.
What care they for the bitterest storm
In their cheery home-life, snug and warm?
With a good-night kiss and a trustful prayer,
They fall asleep, with no thought or care
For the suffering little ones around,
Who listen, perhaps, to the joyous sound
Of their voices in play, their laugh and song,
Till, heartsick and weary, they hurry along
Their desolate way so dark, so drear.
Their piteous pleadings I surely hear:
"Saviour is thy mission ended,
To the Father now ascended?
Is thy uplifting hand withdrawn?
Fiends to crime are beckoning on.
Lord, in mercy hear our cry,
Crushed by want and misery!"
Jesus speaks with accents loving,
Each impatient thought reproving:
"You may not our fullness see,—
I in God, and He in me.
Nothing lost, O holy Father!
All Thou gavest I will gather,
And will raise them up again,
Without blemish, spot or stain.
Willingly I would not grieve them;
I will ne'er forsake or leave them."
With joy, men must this truth receive,
Who o'er lost sinners mourn and grieve.
"Be merciful!" they beg and plead:
Lookup and shout for joy instead!
Even we would save all men from sin,
And bring the vilest wanderer in!
If such compassion be divine,
Dare I compare Christ's love with mine?
Can adding our poor mite of love
God's infinite compassion move?
We have His promise ever sure,
His love and mercy shall endure.
Knowing His boundless love and care,
We trust His goodness here, and there
Where is no storm, no cold or night,
No lonely outcasts from the light,
No aching hearts, no weary sigh,—
But love and joy and harmony.
We are His children, and we know
The love we on each child bestow;
And if our loved ones go astray,
We cannot tear our hearts away;
We follow them with tireless feet
Through winter's cold and summer's heat.
Had we His power to make them whole,
To cleanse and heal the sin-sick soul,
O, surely, we would never rest!
But we would seek with ceaseless quest
Till every one was gathered in,
Secure from all the wiles of sin,
And the last wanderer should come
Back to our arms.—all, all at home!
The love we on each child bestow;
And if our loved ones go astray,
We cannot tear our hearts away;
We follow them with tireless feet
Through winter's cold and summer's heat.
Had we His power to make them whole,
To cleanse and heal the sin-sick soul,
O, surely, we would never rest!
But we would seek with ceaseless quest
Till every one was gathered in,
Secure from all the wiles of sin,
And the last wanderer should come
Back to our arms.—all, all at home!