My poem of the week this week is “The Battle of Life,” by Elizabeth Prentiss. It is a good reminder to me of the call to press on beyond my comforts in obedience to the work the Lord calls me to. It is so easy to shift to pursuing my comfort rather than seeking first His kingdom. I thought it an appropriate word in the final week of the semester.
The wintry storm was raging loud without,
And to and fro,
The angry winds flung carelessly about,
The falling snow.
Luxuriously before the ruddy fire
I sat at ease,
The only object of my heart’s desire
Myself to please.
A voice aroused me from my idle dreams,
“Rise, rise, my child!
Shake thyself loose from these unfruitful schemes,
These fancies wild.
Come forth with me, and buffet wind and storm
And icy cold;
Come as thou art, nor stay thy shrinking form
Thus to enfold!”
It was the Master’s voice. I could but yield
To its behest,
While dread repugnance lay but ill concealed
Within my breast.
Behind me closed my sheltering door; I faced
The tempest rude;
Wild, savage winds my shrinking form embraced
While thus I stood
Upon the threshold, casting longing eyes
Back to my home,
Reluctant from my childhood’s Paradise
Enforced to roam.
Then plunging onward towards th’ appointed way,
I madly went,
And night and day, yea, many a night and day,
My figure bent
Beneath the blast. Assailed with shuddering dire,
My fears oppressed,
Despairing, hopeless, stript of all desire,
I onward pressed.
Until I heard above the thunder’s roll
The Master’s voice
Arise once more. It cried, “Oh, faithless soul,
Behold thy choice!
A life-long childhood, basking idly on
The lap of ease,
Or manhood’s strength by long endurance won
In toils like these.
Whether to gird thyself to walk with Me
Mid conflict dread,
Or back effeminate to ease to flee-
Living-yet dead.”
Already by my labors stronger grown,
I stood and cried:
“Master and Lord! With Thee, with Thee alone,
let me abide.
Let me but know I buffet wind and storm,
With Thee, with Thee!
Upon my path Thine own divinest form
But let me see!”
Thus in the hour of battle choice was made!
Choice of unrest!
Thus Christian manhood seeking, undismayed
The storm I breast.
No leisure now, no dreams, no idle time;
I wrestle on;
Beat, icy winds, oppose, oh adverse clime,
Till victory’s won.
For I shall win! I shall come forth at last
Not lost, but found!
A Christian warrior whom each stormy blast
Hath victor crowned!