The Barren Easter

Parable of the seed sower. Those who sow
seed do not always harvest, but must wait
to see God's rewards in the here after.

The Barren Easter

by Clinton Scollard

It was the barren Easter,

And o'er Pamello plain,

Where'er the sweeping eye might rove,

From beechen grove to beechen grove.

Greened neither grass nor grain.

It was the barren Easter;

By vale and windy hill,

Where blossoms tossed on yester year,

Now bourgeoned no narcissus spear,

And glowed no daffodil.

It was the barren Easter,

And toward the grinding-floor,

A store of wheat within his pack,

Along the dreary meadow-track

Went good Saint Isadore.

It was the barren Easter,

And when the sweet saint came

To where a mighty live-oak spread,

A host of wrens and starlings red

Seemed crying out his name.

It was the barren Easter,

And to his ears their cry

Rang plaintively, "O Isadore,

Grant us thy pity, we implore!

Give succor, or we die! "

It was the barren Easter

When wide he flung his store.

And all the feathered folk of air

Sped whirring downward for their share

From kind Saint Isadore.

It was the barren Easter

And onward to the mill

Along the dreary meadow-track.

The empty bags within his pack,

The good saint plodded still.

It was the barren Easter;

He scarce knew why he went,

Save that he did not dare return

To face his master, grim and stem.

Now all his grain was spent.

It was the barren Easter;

When at the miller's feet

He cast the sacks in dull despair,

Behold, he saw them open there

Abrim with golden wheat !

It was the barren Easter;

Oh, meager are men's words

To tell how He that rose that day.

And drove the wraith of Death away,

Helped him who fed the birds!

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Easter Even

Easter Even

by Margaret French Patton

Our dear Lord now is taken from the cross,

His bruised body wrapped in linen cool.

And laid by loving hands in Joseph's tomb;

Outraged Nature bows her head and sleeps;

The guard is set; Jerusalem is still.

Ye sleeping buds, break

Open your green cerements, and wake

To fragrant blossoming for His sweet sake;

To-morrow will be Easter day,

And I would have my garden gay

On Easter day.

Ye home-bound birds, take

Swift-winged flight, that from my budding brake

Your joyful hallelujahs ye may make;

To-morrow will be Easter day.

And I would have my garden gay

On Easter day.

Ye strolling winds, shake

Out your drooping sails, and heavenward take

The songs and sweet aromas for His sake;

To-morrow will be Easter day.

And I would have my garden gay

On Easter day.

Early in the morning while 'tis dark,

Like Mary Magdalen, with spices rare,

I, too, shall hasten to my garden fair

To seek, our risen Lord. Who knows? For love

Of birds and buds He may be walking there.

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An Easter Carol

 An Easter Carol

by Christina G. Rossetti

Spring bursts to-day,

For Christ is risen and all the earth's at play.

Flash forth, thou Sun,

The rain is over and gone, its work is done.

Winter is past,

Sweet Spring is come at last, is come at last.

Bud, Fig and Vine,

Bud, Olive, fat with fruit and oil and wine.

Break forth this morn

In roses, thou but yesterday a thorn.

Uplift thy head,

O pure white Lily through the Winter dead.

Beside your dams

Leap and rejoice, you merry-making Lambs.

All Herds and Flocks

Rejoice, all Beasts of thickets and of rocks.

Sing, Creatures, sing,

Angels and Men and Birds and everything. 

 

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Father

Father

by S. E. Kiser

When all my other debts are paid

My greatest debt will yet be due

For sacrifices you have made

And cares that I have brought to you.

I have been slow to understand

The patience and the love and pride

With which for my sake you have planned,

Your own ambitions put aside.

When others have withheld from me

The praise that I have longed to hear,

You, Father, have been quick to see

And glad to speak the word of cheer.

With eager efforts you have sought

To smooth my paths and make them fair,

Unselfishly expecting naught

In payment for your tender care.

I have been slow to learn, but now,

With recollections that are sweet,

I braid a laurel for your brow

And lay my tribute at your feet.

My Father's Voice in Prayer

My Father's Voice in Prayer 

by May Hastings Nottage

In the silence that falls on my spirit

When the clamor of life loudest seems,

Comes a voice that floats in tremulous notes

Far over my sea of dreams.

I remember the dim old vestry

And my father kneeling there;

And the old hymns thrill with the memory still

Of my father's voice in prayer.

I can see his glance of approval

As my part in the hymn I took;

I remember the grace of my mother's face,

And the tenderness of her look;

And I knew that a gracious memory

Cast its light on that face so fair

As her cheek flushed faint--O mother, my saint!--

At my father's voice in prayer.

"Neath the stress of that marvelous pleading

All childish dissensions died:

Each rebellious will sank conquered and still

In a passion of love and pride.

Ah, the years have held exquisite voices,

And melodies tender and rare;

But tenderest seems the voice of my dreams--

My father's voice in prayer.