If I rise in the night,
And step naked into the blackness
And the roaring storm,
Will Thy abundant rain wash me,
Wash away some of this grime,
Making my soul cleaner?
And will it be done
Through the streams of Thy rain,
Or because I cast away fear
And stepped from my tent to the storm
Unafraid?
Or will it be because I heard
A voice in my heart, urging
Be clean, be clean,
And obeyed?
If I rise in the dawn,
And climb slowly into the hill-top
With an empty heart,
Will Thy exquisite sky fill me,
Fill with a wonder my heart,
Making the soul stronger?
And will it be done
Through Thy colour and light,
Or because I sought and was sure of
The beauty that You would reveal
To my eyes?
Or will it be because you have seen
How bare is my heart, expecting
The sun, the sun,
To arise?
Philip Britts, 25 December, 1941
Megan R. wrote:
> That my white lamb is being carried off
> In steel-like talons to the unknown hills
> And is a lost speck only, in the sky--
> That is not the chief thing;
>
> Or that I did not have the strength or skill
> To drive off the attacker, to defeat
> Merciless claw and swift unerring beak
> Or shattering wing;
>
> But my fist is smashed and bloody
> And my arm is a scarlet rag,
> Showing I struck at the eagle . . .
> And that is the chief thing.
>
> Philip Britts, 13 December, 1941
>
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