And may not God have suffered much Ere reached the gory cross? Did not our woe the God-heart touch? Did He not feel our loss? The "Man of Sorrows" we adore, And own His sufferings real; But suffered He as God before; For God can sorrow feel. THE COPY Looking o'er this written page, Many blurs and blots are seen; Crooked strokes, at every stage-- Oh, that it again were clean, As at first I found it, when I defiled it with my pen! Gladly would I all erase; But along the lines of blue You could still the failure trace In the paper's darkened hue; Though the words could not be seen, You could trace where they had been. I will try to do my best, Though my ideal be not gained; On the Master's scrip shall rest Eager eyes, till is attained Some resemblance to His hand; If no more I can command. Like my life, this written sheet, So unlike the pattern given; Crooked strokes, I oft repeat; Oh, that from it could be riven All the blurs and blots of sin; All the self that's found within. _I_ can not the past erase. _Christ_ shall blot the crooked out, Leaving not the slightest trace Of my sin, the lines about; And will give me grace to write Pages pleasing in His sight. I will try to do my best, As He gives me strength and light, Leaving with Him all the rest; He will keep life's pages white; And the copy shall be shown Perfected, before His throne. PERFECT WORK An artist skilled beyond the sons of men With pleasure scanned the pictures on the wall, Rare works of art, each one pronounced a gem, The product of his hand, both great and small; Each filled its place in the designer's plan; Conceived in full before the work began. Pleased was the artist with results as shown; But his ideal was not as yet attained; It needed this, as palace needs a throne, But _throne_ a _king_--then is perfection gained, When his great masterpiece hangs in its place, And the great artist looks in his own face. THE JOHNSTOWN DISASTER, 1889 Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale, And see the rising waters, and hear the bitter wail; The swollen streams now empty their contents in the lake, The waters rise to kiss the skies and walls of granite shake. Oh, hear that awful booming; the dam has given way! An avalanche of water God's hand alone can stay! Oh, leap, ye hills, before it and keep this torrent back, Or devastated towns and homes will mark its onward track! Look down, ye Alleghenies, upon this vale of woe; Ten thousand corpses at your base their soulless faces show; Some hid beneath the debris, some covered o'er with slime, Their spirits fled to meet their God, beyond the shores of time. The aged sire and lassie; the careworn mother, too, With her strong son, whom she had hoped would guard life's journey thro', Are lying there together, the old and young alike; Their plans and purposes cut off, no power to love or strike.