Tuesday, November 8, 2011

We Are His Channels Now

On far and lonely shores
Where cruel sin and hate
Obscure all peace and joy,
Vast multitudes await.
Some in deep lethargy
Plod in the old, old way;
Hopeless, they face the night,
Helpless, they wait the day.

Drums throb and terror grips
The hearts of man and child,
Whether in village hut
Or in the jungle wild,
Drums throb, as wicked cults
Relay the secret word;
Screams pierce the fetid air
And then no more are heard.

Can we, who dwell in peace
In God's own joyous hope,
Ignore the plight of these
His creatures too, who grope
Vainly for one bright star
To light their deepening night?
Can we avert our eyes
From such a piteous sight?

God loves these burdened ones.
He yearns their wounds to heal.
Then we, His hands, His feet,
Must to the lost reveal
The riches of his grace
And mighty saving power;
We are His channels now--
This year, this day, this hour.

by Dorothy Conant Stroud

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