God’s ministers are many,
   For this His gracious will,
Remembrancers that day and night
   This holy office fill.
While some are hushed in slumber,
   Some to fresh service wake,
And thus the saintly number
   No change or chance can break.
And thus the sacred courses
  Are evermore fulfilled,
The tide of grace by time or place
   Is never stayed or stilled.

Oh, if our ears were opened
   To hear as angels do
The Intercession-chorus
   Arising full and true,
We should hear it soft up-welling
   In morning’s pearly light,
Through evening’s shadows swelling
   In grandly gathering might,
The sultry silence filling
   Of noontide’s thunderous glow,
And the solemn starlight thrilling
   With ever deepening flow.

We should hear it through the rushing
   Of the city’s restless roar,
And trace its gentle gushing
   O’er ocean’s crystal floor:
We should hear it far up-floating
   Beneath the Orient moon,
And catch the golden noting
   From the busy Western noon,
And pine-robed heights would echo
   As the mystic chant up-floats,
And the sunny plain resound again
   With the myriad-mingling notes.

Who are the bless`ed ministers
    Of this world-gathering band?
All who have learnt One Language,
   Through each far-parted land;
All who have learnt the story
   Of Jesu’s love and grace,
And are longing for His glory
   To shine in every face.
All who have known the Father
   In Jesus Christ our Lord,
And know the might and love the light
   Of the Spirit in the Word.

Yet there are some who see not 
    Their calling high and grand,
Who seldom pass the portals,
   And never boldly stand
Before the golden altar
   On the crimson-stain`ed floor,
Who wait afar and falter,
   And dare not hope for more.
Will ye not join in the bless`ed ranks
   In their beautiful array?
Let intercession blend with thanks
   As ye minister to-day!

There are little ones among them,
   Child-ministers of prayer,
White robes of intercession
   Those tiny servants wear.
First for the near and dear ones,
   In that fair ministry,
Then for the poor black children,
   so far beyond the sea.
The busy hands are folded,
   As the little heart uplifts
In simple love, to God above,
   Its prayer for all good gifts.

There are hands too often weary
   With the business of the day,
With God-entrusted duties,
   Who are toiling while they pray.
They bear the golden vials,
   And the golden harps of praise,
Through all the daily trials,
   Through all the dusty ways.
These hands, so tired, so faithful,
   With odours sweet are filled,
And in the ministry of prayer
   Are wonderfully skilled.

There are ministers unlettered,
    Not of Earth’s great and wise,
Yet mighty and unfettered
   Their eagle-prayers arise.
Free of the heavenly storehouse!
   They hold the master-key 
That opens all the fulness
   Of God’s great treasury.
They bring the needs of others,
   And all things are their own,
For their one grand claim is Jesu’s name
   Before their Father’s throne.

There are noble Christian workers,
   The men of faith and power,
The overcoming wrestlers
   Of many a midnight hour
Prevailing princes with their God,
   Who will not be denied,
Who bring down showers of blessing
  To swell the rising tide.
 The Prince of Darkness quaileth 
   At their triumphant way,
Their fervent prayer availeth
   To sap his subtle sway.

But in this Temple-service
   Are sealed and set apart
Arch-priests of intercession,
    Of undivided heart,
The fulness of anointing
   On these is doubly shed, 
The consecration of their God
   Is on each low-bowed head.
They bear the golden vials
   With white and trembling hand
In quiet room or wakeful gloom
   These ministers must stand,–

To the Intercession-Priesthood
   Mysteriously ordained,
When the strange dark gift of suffering
   This added gift hath gained.
For the holy hands uplifted
   In suffering’s longest hour
Are truly Spirit-gifted
   With intercession-power.
The Lord of Blessing fills them
   With his uncounted gold,
As unseen store, still more and more,
   Those trembling hands shall hold.

Not always with rejoicing
   This ministry is wrought,
For many a sigh is mingled
   With the sweet odours brought.
Yet every tear bedewing
   The faith-fed altar fire
May be its bright renewing
   To purer flame, and higher.
But when the oil of gladness
   God graciously outpours,
The heavenward blaze wih blended praise
   More mightily upsoars.

So the incense-cloud ascendeth
   As through calm crystal air,
A pillar reaching unto heaven,
   Of wreath`ed faith and prayer.
For evermore the Angel
   Of Intercession stands
In His Divine High Priesthood,
   With fragrance-fill`ed hands,
To wave the golden censer
   Before His Father’s throne,
With spirit-fire intenser,
   And incense all His own.

And evermore the Father
   Sends radiantly down
All-marvellous responses,
   His ministers to crown;
The incense-cloud returning
   As golden blessing-showers,
We in each drop discerning
   Some feeble prayer of ours,
Transmuted into wealth unpriced,
   By Him who giveth thus
The glory all to Jesus Christ,
   The gladness all to us!

Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS

IN the evenng there is weeping,
   Lengthening shadows, failing sight,
Silent darkness, slowly creeping
   Over all things dear and bright.

In the evening there is weeping,
   Lasting all the twilight through;
Phantom sorrows, never sleeping,
   Wakening slumbers of the true.

In the monring cometh singing,
   Cometh joy, and cometh sight,
When the sun ariseth,bringing
   Healing on his wings of light.

In the evening cometh singing,
   Songs that ne’er in silence end,
Angel minstrels ever bringing
   Praises new with thine to blend.

Are the twilight shadows casting
   Heavy glooms upon thy heart?
Soon in radiance everlasting
   Night for ever shall depart.

Art thou weeping, sad and lonely,
   Through the evening of thy days?
All thy sighing shall be only
   Prelude of more perfect praise.

Darkest hour is nearest dawning,
   Solemn herald of the day;
Singing cometh in the morning,
   God shall wipe thy tears away.

Frances Ridley Havergal from SWISS LETTERS.

                    ONLY one heart to give,
                       Only one voice to use;
                    Only one little life to live,
                        And only one to lose.

                    Poor is my best, and small:
                        How could I dare divide?
                    Surely my Lord shall have it all,
                        He shall not be denied.

                     All!  for far more I owe
                         Than all I have to bring;
                     All!  for my Saviour loves me so;
                        All!  for I love my King.

                     All!  for it is His own,
                         He gave the tiny store;
                     All!  for it must be His alone;
                         All!  for I have no more.

                      All!  for the last and least
                          He stoopeth to uplift:
                      The altar of my great High Priest
                          Shall sanctify my gift.

Frances Ridley Havergal from BEN BRIGHTBOOTS

Oh, thrilling thought!  that I should be
With Him who shed His blood for me,
        Where naught from Him shall sever;
Where I, with sainted hosts above,
O’ershadowed by the Holy Dove,
Shall banquet on His boundless love,
        And know those words, “For ever.”

Oh, thrilling thought!  to see Him shine,
For, evermore to call Him mine,
        With Heaven, all Heaven, before me!
To stand where angel myriads gaze,
Amid the illimitable blaze,
While He the Godhead full displays,
        To all the sons of glory!

William Henry Havergal (1793-1870)
Hon. Canon of Worcester Cathedral

“Summer-tide is coming,
        With all its pleasant things;
Every bee is humming,
        And every songster sings.
Mornings now are birghtsome,
        Inviting student thought;
Evenings, too, are lightsome,
        With balmy quiet fraught:
Hearths no longer lure us,
        The fields instead we roam;
Hearts albeit insure us
        A happy, happy Home.

                 II.

“Summer-tide, I hail thee,
        The Empress of the year!
But thou soon would’st fail me
        Were not thy Maker near.
He thy course disposes,
        Thy light, thy scent, thy glow,
He tints all thy roses,
        And prints thy brilliant bow.
Laud Him, all creation,
        The sinner’s mighty Friend;
Near Him be our station,
        Where Summer ne’er shall end!”

                                            W.H.H.

Here is one of William Henry’s songs for the young, written for his grandchildren.

William Henry Havergal (1793-1870)
Hon. Canon of Worcester Cathedral

 GRACE and glory!  They are yours
       Through the Saviour’s dying love;
For His own sweet word endures
       Longer than the stars above.
It shall never pass away,
So trust His living love to-day.

HAVE you not a song for Jesus?
       All the little buds and flowers,
All the merry birds and breezes,
       All the sunbeams and the showers,
Praise Him in their own sweet way!
What have you to sing to-day?
Bring your happiest songs, and sing
For your Saviour and your King.

KNOWING Christ was crucified,
      Knowing that He loves you now
Just as much as when He died
       With the throns upon His brow,–
Stay and think!  oh, should not you,
Love this bless`ed Saviour too?

OPENING flowers I send to you
With a message sweet and true,
They may fade, but Jesus lives,–
Peace and grace and joy He gives,
Come to Him and you will know
What He waiteth to bestow!

Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS

BEHOLD your King!  Though the moonlight steals
     Through the silvery sprays of the olive tree,
No star-gemmed sceptre or crown it reveals,
     In the solemn shade of Gethsemane.
             Only a form of prostrate grief,
             Fallen, crushed, like a broken leaf!
Oh, think of His sorrow!  that we may know
The depth of love in the depth of woe.

Behold your King!  Is it nothing to you,
      That the crimson tokens of agony
From the kingly brow must fall like dew,
     Through the shuddering shades of Gethsemane?
              Jesus Himself, the Prince of Life,
              Bows in mysterious mortal strife;
Oh, think of His sorrow!  that we may know
The unknown love in the unknown woe.

Behold your King, with His sorrow crowned,
     Alone, alone in the valley is He!
The shadows of death are gathering round,
     And the Cross must follow Gethsemane.
             Darker and darker the gloom must fall,
             Filled is the Cup, He must drink it all!
Oh, think of His sorrow!  that we may know
His wondrous love in His wondrous woe.

Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS.

Note.–After F.R.H.’s MS. copy of “Adoration,” written Dec. 31, 1866, she adds:–’I find this is exactly my hundredth poem, beginning from my No. 2 MS. book, and not reckoning juvenile pieces before I left school.  I am not sorry that “Adoration” happens to close the round number as well as the year 1866.  I should like the same subject, only bettter treated, to close my verse-writing for life.  One would wish one’s last poem to be some expression of praise to the Crucified One.’

It is a remarkable coincidence that ‘Behold your King,’ and ‘He Suffered,’ are the closing poems in F.R.H.’s book, written in pencil, 1879 [the year she died].

GOLDEN harps are sounding,
     Angel voices ring,
Pearly gates are opened–
     Opened for the King;
Christ, the King of Glory,
     Jesus, King of Love,
Is gone up in triumph
     To His throne above.
          All His work is ended,
               Joyfully we sing,
          Jesus hath ascended!
               Glory to our King!

He who came to save us,
     He who bled and died,
Now is crowned with glory
     At His Father’s side.
Never more to suffer,
     Never more to die
Jesus, King of Glory,
     Is gone up on high.
          All His work is ended,
               Joyfully we sing,
          Jesus hath ascended!
               Glory to our King!

Praying for His children,
     In that blessed place,
Calling them to glory,
     Sending them His grace;
His bright home preparing,
     Faithful ones, for you;
Jesus ever liveth,
     Ever loveth too.
          All His work is ended,
               Joyfully we sing,
          Jesus hath ascended!
               Glory to our King!

This post is dedicated to the memory of Dorothy Rowena Steinbach, beloved mother, grandmother and great-grandmother in my sister’s family. . .we loved you Rowena, and Jesus loves you, too.  He gave you the gift of song and you used it for His glory all the days of your life, 83 years.  Praise the LORD for your homegoing!

‘FROM glory unto glory!’  Be this our joyous song,
As on the King’s own highway we bravely march along!
‘From glory unto glory!’  O word of stirring cheer,
As dawns the solemn brightness of another glad New Year.

Our own belov`ed Master ‘hath many things to say;’
Look forward to His teaching, unfolding day by day;
To whispers of His Spirit, while resting at His feet,
To glowing revelation, to insight clear and sweet.

‘From glory unto glory!’  Our faith hath seen the King,
We own His matchless beauty, as adoringly we sing:
But He hath more to show us!  O thought of untold
        bliss!
And we press on exultingly in certain hope to this:–

To marvellous outpourings of His ‘treasures new and old,’
To largess of His bounty, paid in the King’s own gold,
To glorious expansion of His mysteries of grace,
To radiant unveilings of the brightness of His face.

‘From glory unto glory!’  What great things He hath
        done,
What wonders He hath shown us, what triumphs He hath
        won!
We marvel at the records of the blessings of the year!
But sweeter than the Christmas bells rings out His promise
        clear–

That ‘greater things,’ far greater, our longing eyes shall
        see!
We can but wait and wonder what ‘greater things’ shall
        be!
But glorious fulfilments rejoicingly we claim,
While pleading in the power of the All-prevailing Name.

‘From glory unto glory!’  What mighty blessings crown
The lives for which our Lord hath laid His own so freely
        down!
Omnipotence to keep us, Omniscience to guide,
Jehovah’s Triune Presence within us to abide!

The fulness of His blessing encompasseth our way;
The fulness of His promises crowns every brightening
        day;
The fulness of His glory is beaming from above,
While more and more we realize the fulness of His love.

‘From glory unto glory!’  Without a shade of care,
Because the Lord who loves us will every burden bear;
Because we trust Him fully, and know that He will
        guide,
And know that He will keep us at His belov`ed side.

‘From glory unto glory!’  Though tribulation fall,
It cannot touch our treasure, when Christ is all in all!
Whatever lies before us, there can be naught to fear,
For what are pain and sorrow when Jesus Christ is near?

‘From glory unto glory!’  O marvels of the word!
‘With open face beholding the glory of the Lord,’
We, even we (O wondrous grace!) ‘are changed into the
        same,’
The image of our Saviour, to glorify His Name.

Abiding in His pesence, and walking in the light,
And seeking to ‘do always what is pleasing in His sight,’
We look to Him to keep us ‘all glorious within,’
Because ‘the blood of Jesus Christ is cleansing from all
        sin.’

The things behind forgetting, we only gaze before,
‘From glory unto glory,’  that ‘shineth more and more,’
Because our Lord hath said it, that such shall be our way
(O splendour of the promise!) ‘unto the perfect day.’

‘From glory unto glory!’  Our fellow-travellers still
Are gathering on the journey!  the bright electric thrill
Of quick instinctive union, more frequent and more sweet,
Shall swiftly pass from heart to heart in true and tender
        beat.

And closer yet, and closer the golden bonds shall be,
Enlinking all who love our Lord in pure sincerity;
And wider yet, and wider shall the circling glory glow,
As more and more are taught of God that mighty love to
        know.

O ye who seek the Saviour, look up in faith and love,
Come up into the sunshine, so bright and warm above!
No longer tread the valley, but, clinging to His hand,
Ascend the shining summits and view the glorious land.

Our harp-notes should be sweeter, our trumpet-tones more
        clear,
Our anthems ring so grandly, that all the world must hear!
Oh, royal be our music, for who hath cause to sing
Like the chorus of redeemed ones, the Children of the
        King!

Oh, let our adoration for all that He hath done
Peal out beyond the stars of God, while voice and life are
        one!
And let our consecration be real, and deep, and true;
Oh, even now our hears shall bow, and joyful vows
        renew!–

‘In full and glad surrender we give ourselves to Thee,
Thine utterly and only, and evermore to be!
O Son of God, who lovest us, we will be Thine alone,
And all we are, and all we have, shall henceforth be Thine
        own!’

Now, onward, ever onward, from ‘strength to strength’ we
        go,
While ‘grace for grace’ abundantly shall from His fulness
        flow,
To glory’s full fruition, from glory’s foretaste here,
Until His Very Presence crown our happiest New Year!

Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS.

He came to tell the Father’s love,
   His goodness, truth, and grace;
To show the brightness of His smile,
   The glory of His face;
With His own light, so full and bright,
   The shades of death to chase.
      ‘Glory to God!  and peace on earth.’

He came to bring the weary ones
   True peace and perfect rest;
To take away the guilt and sin
   Which darkened and distressed;
That great and small might hear His call,
   And all in Him be blessed.
      ‘Glory to God!  and peace on earth.’

He came to bring a glorious gift,
   ‘Goodwill to men;’ –and why?
Because He loved us, Jesus came
   For us to live and die.
Then, sweet and long, the Angels’ Song
   Again we raise on high:
      ‘Glory to God!  and peace on earth.’

Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS.