Servants.
By Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)
They are but servants, say the words of scorning,
As though they meant to say, we're finer clay,
Yet, all the universe holds solemn warning,
Against this pride in creatures of a day
In fashion's last new folly, flaunting slowly,
With white plumes tossing on the Sabbath air
They pass with scornful words a sister lowly.
Do scornful lips know anything of prayer?
Alas! poor human nature's inconsistence,
Up to God's house we go, that we be fed;
And there, as beggars begging for assistance,
Say "Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread."
Without a price, the priceless blessings buying
Which are laid up for us, with Christ in God;
To Him we come as little children crying,
That He may guide us by His staff and rod,
We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning,
Feeling forgiven, feeling satisfied;
Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning
Ruffling ourselves as those that dwell in pride.
Yet He to whom we come with wishes fervent,
When He came down as bearing our relief,
It was His will to come in form a servant,
Being despised, being acquaint with grief
Earth's mighty conquerors, it is said, have founded
Orders of merit, after fields were won.
And victors' brows the laurel wreath surrounded,
To tell of daring deeds most bravely done.
Trifles as fading as the classic laurel,
Became the guerdon of each mighty deed,
Titles and stars rewarded mortal peril,
And men for such as these would gladly bleed
But He, our holy, sinless, suffering Saviour,
When He sat down upon a conqueror's throne,
Ordained the soldiers of the cross that ever
They wear the name in which He victory won
Servants to do all things He hath commanded,
To bear the service which our Lord has borne,
To suffer for His name, with false words branded,
To pay with loving service bitter scorn
What was beforetime low, is now the highest,
And that is glory that the world calls shame,
Those who can say "I serve" to Him are nighest
Because the Son hath worn a servant's name
Lift up your heads heed not the words of scorning,
From those whose earnest life is not begun,
Blessed are they who on the judgment morning
Hear from the Master, "Servant, 'tis well done"