By John Rieping | Published in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved |
In ancient times, today was known as Lazarus Saturday. The name refers to the organizer of a supper that Yeshua (Jesus) ate in the community of Bethany “six days before the Passover” (cf. John 12:1). That naturally wasn’t the first visit of Yeshua, but it would be his last. The Greco-Syrian physician Loukas (Luke) describes the first meeting (Luke 10:38-42). Yeshua had arrived in the village of Bethany, which sat a few miles east of the metropolis of Jerusalem, and a woman named Marta (Martha) welcomed the traveling rabbi into her home. While Marta busied herself with serving her famous guest, her sister Mirriam (Mary) sat at his feet and listened. This irked her sister, probably for multiple reasons. For one, Mirriam’s pose was customary of male students listening to a religious scholar. Jewish boys began their formal education around the ages of 5-7, either in the synagogue or at home. They would first be taught the Hebrew alphabet, the Aleph Bet, and then memorize and study verses from the first five books of the Bible, the Pentateuch. Note that I said “boys.” Jewish women received little formal instruction, did not read from the Bible in the synagogue, were not taught Jewish law, could only observe religious ceremonies, and weren’t expected to attend on festivals and feast days. Mirriam’s adoption of this student role before a rabbi was scandalous. Moreover, Marta didn’t think it was fair that her sister was just sitting around while she was busy with the work of being a good host. So she complained: Rabbi, don’t you care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her to help me! Surely to Marta’s surprise, Yeshua not only didn’t scold Mirriam for her revolutionary behavior, he praised it: Marta, Marta, you are full of care and trouble about many things, but only one is necessary. Mirriam has chosen that good part, and it will not be taken from her. This wasn’t the only time Yeshua defied expectations in a radical way. Those unwilling to accept this struggled with his hard teachings. From there, it was only a step onward to reject the teacher too. The memoir of the “beloved disciple” says that when Eleazar (Lazarus) later died of illness, Yeshua wept, prayed, and called his friend forth from the cave in which his corpse had been entombed (John 11:1-44). Talk of this alleged miracle frightened Jewish religious leaders. It wasn’t the first time a self-proclaimed messiah had arisen. Decades before, a tall and handsome slave of King Herod gathered followers, declared himself king of the Jews, plundered and burned the royal palace at Jericho, and did the same elsewhere, according to Jewish historian Josephus Flavius. The commander of Herod’s infantry led Roman soldiers against this “messiah,” Simon of Peraea, and beheaded him. Likewise a shepherd named Athronges and his four brothers led a flock of rebels against Herod Archelaus. Less than a dozen years later, Judas of Galilee marshaled a violent fight against the Roman census. All of the lives of these so-called messiahs had ended amidst bloodshed, and Jewish leaders decided it would be better if only one died this time — Yeshua — instead of many. In this context, Yeshua ate in Bethany with his friends Eleazar, Marta, and Mirriam in the house of Simon the leper on the sabbath (Matthew 26:6-13; John 12:1-11). Unexpectedly, Mirriam washed and anointed his feet with costly scented ointment and wiped them dry with her long hair. This was another scandalous gesture by Mirriam, and yet once again her teacher praised it. Leave her be, he told his indignant apostle Yehuda of Keriot (Judas Iscariot), for it is for the day of my burial she kept this spikenard. It was the custom of the day to perfume the newly dead to soften the eventual stench of decay. The next day, which Christians call Palm Sunday, Yeshua rode a young donkey into nearby Jerusalem. There was symbolism in the choice of transportation, for a horse was the mount of war and the donkey a steed of peace. He was met with cries greeting him as the king of Israel and you can easily imagine the alarm of those fearful of another disastrous false messiah. So began the time that fourth-century Christians called the “Great Week” (now known as Holy Week). Spy Wednesday was the day Judas joined those plotting against Yeshua; Holy Thursday, his last supper; Good Friday, his death; Holy Saturday; and Easter Sunday, new life.
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By John Rieping | Published 8 March 2014 in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved | Earlier this week, an Internet meme amused me. In its first of two panels, the image showed the faces of the characters of the classic movie "Star Wars" -- robot C-3PO, Jedi master Obi-Wan Kenobi, and young Luke Skywalker -- as they stared ahead. Below them was the film quote, "You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy." The second panel showed the characters from behind, but the panorama before them was not Mos Eisley space port on the planet of Tatooine. Instead it showed the U.S. Congress in session. I shared it online with a friend, who commented she was coming to agree with its sentiments more and more. Dangerously, her words made me reflect, and I realized I could not embrace the meme's cynicism. Power may indeed tend to corrupt, as British historian Lord Acton proposed in 1887, but that doesn't necessarily mean that all politicians are dishonest and unjust. A long time ago in our very own galaxy, the Greek philosopher Aristotle (384-322 BC) considered political theory to be a branch of the philosophy of ethics. By ethics, humanity aspires to happiness by a life of virtue, he taught, and by politics we cultivate virtue in a people so it may be happy. Such thinking is not so distant from us. After all, some of our laws clearly exist to discourage and punish behavior our U.S. society views as bad, whether it be voyeurism or bribery. When our morality shifts, the laws of our democracy often belatedly follow, and sometimes the other way around. Late in February, U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder reminded me anew of the connection between politics and ethics with his justification for President Barack Obama and himself refusing to uphold laws they consider wrong. Elsewhere, more than a handful of state attorneys general, fellow Democrats, have also abandoned their similar sworn duty. In the latter cases, the issue revolves around constitutional amendments or laws limiting the definition of marriage to one man and one woman. Attorneys general must resolve, Holder said, "not merely to use our legal system to settle disputes and punish those who have done wrong, but to answer the kinds of fundamental questions -- about fairness and equality -- that have always determined who we are and who we aspire to be, both as a nation and as a people." In short, Holder, Obama and others are following their consciences, like many brave souls in history have also done in the face of what they see as unfair laws. It is an unexpected stance from members of an administration that on Feb. 18, 2011, rescinded many existing conscience protections for medical workers, who previously were allowed to refuse to offer services that violated their morals or religious beliefs. No longer would federal law allow pharmacists to say no to prescriptions for abortifacient drugs, a doctor to decline to treat a lesbian for infertility, or an ambulance driver to reject taking a woman to an abortion. While the U.S. president and attorneys general follow their hearts, the unelected citizen has been told that the law trumps their convictions. The award-winning play and movie "A Man for All Seasons" dramatizes the true tale of Sir Thomas More, the high-ranking chancellor of England during the 16th-century reign of King Henry VIII. Ultimately More would be executed rather than deny his conscience and accept the king's claim to be the spiritual head of Christianity in England. In the drama, More's future son-in-law, Will Roper, urges him to detain a man openly willing to betray More for profit, but he will not: "Go he should if he were the Devil himself until he broke the law!" This outrages Roper, who thinks laws should be ignored when dealing with evil people. More replies with equal passion: "What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil? ... And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you -- where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws from coast to coast, Man's laws, not God's, and if you cut them down -- and you're just the man to do it -- do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety's sake!" Whether in theater or history, More embodies the paradox of deep respect for both law and conscience. May God raise up more such politicians. By John Rieping | Published 14 Feb. 2014 in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved |
Contrary to my usual sloth, I drove to a cinema on the last weekend of January. Lest anyone yawns, realize I last did so for “The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey” in 2012. My own trek involved no dwarves or dragons, but it did have more drama than expected. As is my tendency, I failed to notice the steady march of the clock until only just enough time remained to reach the matinee of “Gimme Shelter.” I rushed out of my apartment, accidentally selected the wrong destination on my GPS navigator’s touch screen, and impatiently chose a new one. My sub-compact car sped down State Route 99 and I arrived minutes before showtime — at the Police Science Institute in Fresno, California. Apparently my hasty fingers had erred twice. “Better late than not at all,” I thought. I redirected my GPS device and followed its advice across Fresno’s surprisingly busy afternoon streets. At the multiplex, lines of people extended like fingers from the box office, which had lost connection to its computer network. After a wait, I bought my ticket and hurried through a nearby open door, which a security guard soon informed me was the wrong one. Out I went, then back in. I sprinted to the darkened cave where “Gimme Shelter” lit a wall in front of invisible tiers of seats. I groped up stairs and down a row of feet I stepped on to finally slouch into a seat. My self-contentment at my patience and determination to support an exceptional film would quickly be broken by two women on my left. “Another door closes,” one of them said repeatedly in a loud sing-song tone. A glance revealed both were adults, one older than I, and the “mockery” kept flowing out. No one else spoke up, so indignantly I scolded them about theater behavior. The elder nodded without upset and they left. It was only then I figured out her 20-something companion had the mind of a child. I had completely misunderstood. I shed tears about more than the movie during the next two hours. How often we see what we presume rather than what is present, especially when stressed. This bias extends far beyond encounters with strangers. In the fantasy novel “The Truth,” author Terry Pratchett writes, “Be careful. People like to be told what they already know. Remember that. They get uncomfortable when you tell them new things. New things... well, new things aren’t what they expect... because the world is not supposed to happen like that. In short, what people think they want is news, but what they really crave is olds... Not news but olds, telling people what they think they already know is true.” I hope such a mistake explains the unacceptable behavior Feb. 5 by the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child. I refer not to its accusation of a conspiracy of silence about Catholic clergy misconduct and resultant harboring of abusers. This old claim ignores reality. Anyone involved in this area knows of the church’s efforts to clarify its policies and to add strong safeguards for children. I saw firsthand these sincere and extensive changes from the inside, so-to-speak, as a seminarian and a Benedictine monk (temporary vows only) as well as later as a volunteer in youth ministry. I refer not to committee claims that the Holy See promotes violence against homosexuals or their children. The Vatican has explicitly condemned “all forms of violence against homosexual persons” (apostolic nuncio to the UN, Archbishop Celestino Migliore, 2008) on multiple occasions. “The Catechism of the Catholic Church,” paragraph 2358, teaches “they must be accepted with respect, compassion, and sensitivity.” No, I refer to recommendations that the Catholic Church contradict its long-standing teachings on the dignity of the human person, including those involving sexuality and abortion. Such an attack on religious liberty is outrageous. However we Christians must never forget what our freedom is for. “Religious liberty is a foundational right. It’s necessary for a good society,” said Philadelphia Archbishop Charles Chaput in 2012. “But it can never be sufficient for human happiness. It’s not an end in itself. In the end, we defend religious liberty in order to live the deeper freedom that is discipleship in Jesus Christ.” Let us correct errors and stand up for our rights — but with love. If we falter as I did at the theater, let us work on a better sequel. By John Rieping | Published 18 Jan. 2014 in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved |
A week and a half ago the mysteries of my genetic programming were tentatively explained to me. For a $99 fee, a California-based genomics company analyzed my DNA. It estimated my heritage is 67.2 percent European, 18.5 percent Native American, and 1.7 percent African (the remainder is unclear). Delighted, I forgetfully shared only the first two aspects of that result with a co-worker Wednesday. "Well, that was kind of obvious," he replied. "We already knew what you were." He had a point. Those who know me well are aware my father immigrated from Germany, and my mother's parents came from Mexico. You don't need a degree in Mexican history to know the nation's population is heavily "mestizo" (a Spanish term for someone of mixed Spanish and Native American descent). Yet, to me, my ancestral ties to Germany, Mexico, Spain and, unexpectedly, Africa felt a bit more solid now, like tilled adobe clay of a local farmer's field under my feet. My genes hold more than markers to my family's past, however. Apparently I also am sensitive to alcohol because of a shortfall of proteins to break it down in my bloodstream. So it may be more harmful for me than for others. Fortunately I've never been much of a consumer of the beverage, despite living in wine grape territory. I'll spare you details on my earwax type, muscle performance, and more. Needless to say, I've been amazed at this glimpse of how much about me had been influenced already at the first moment of my conception. I am reminded of a song lyric of Scripture: “For it was you (God) who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb… "My frame was not hidden from you, when I was made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes beheld my 'embryo' (in Hebrew, “golmi” or “golem”). In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.” (Tehillim/Psalm 139:13, 15-16). Naturally my parents played a pivotal role in my formation. Some may recall my tale a year ago about their courtship (see http://goo.gl/2ZGACN). Fifty years ago today, Saturday, Jan. 18, they wed in my mother's childhood church, St. Alphonsus of Liguori, on historic palm tree-lined Kearney Boulevard in Fresno. This (Saturday) afternoon at 1 o'clock, Joseph and Theresa Rieping, their five children, 16 grandchildren, and two great grandchildren will thank God with a Mass at St. Joachim Catholic Church. Anyone reading this who wishes to attend will surely be welcome. In one of the Scripture passages my father chose for the Mass, the apostle Paul writes, "If God is for us, who can be against us?" (Romans 8:31b) It is a statement of the obvious that we believers seem to forget in times of uncertainty, pain, or menace. After all, if we believe God is all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good, and loves us, then what do we have to fear? We should always overflow with confidence. Needless to say, we don't. Most of us falter in it at times, and for some of us insecurity or anxiety is normal. This is partly because we know firsthand how situations can twist against us, despite even our best efforts. We remember or we imagine, and our heart quakes. Yet Paul went on to write: "Can anything cut us off from the love of Christ -- can hardships or distress, or persecution, or lack of food and clothing, or threats or violence?" (Romans 8:35) Trusting in God doesn’t mean we’ll never suffer trials, as my parents well know. In marriage, your beloved won’t just be with you amid trouble -- your spouse may sometimes be the source. As my mother once told my father: I will always love you, but right now I just don’t like you. And there are some marriages, unlike that of my parents, in which it seems evil has the upper hand, or has triumphed. Who of us have not encountered this? Even so, Paul rightly wrote, "No; we come through all these things victorious, by the power of him who loved us." (Romans 8:37) How can he say this? Because this is true victory: that "nothing already in existence and nothing still to come ... will be able to come between us and the love of God" (Cf. Romans 8:38-39). If God is truly as we believe, there is no greater achievement than to have such a lover. By John Rieping | Published 11 Jan. 2014 in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved |
Starting this week, I’m going to Harvard University — sort of. To be exact, Harvard is going to me. I have enrolled at www.edx.org, a website that offers online courses from a variety of universities such as Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Georgetown, Cornell, Berklee College of Music, and more. Anyone can audit a class for free. Those more ambitious can do the homework, tests and final projects for a certificate or — for a fee — college credit. My chosen challenge is CS50x, “Introduction to Computer Science,” taught by David Malan, Ph.D., who apart from his doctorate in computer science is also a volunteer emergency medical technician and former forensic investigator. After viewing his opening lecture, I can add he’s an entertaining teacher as well. I’ve long had an interest in programming. I first encountered computers during my fourth grade year at St. Joachim School. A computer lab shared by the entire campus featured primitive educational games on Apple computers — long before the days of Windows, Mac OS, Android or iOS. But that wasn’t enough. Like a burglar at the doorstep, I wanted to get inside. At one of my favorite refuges, the Madera County Library, I would read and re-read the sole book on programming in the children’s section. A year or so later, my dreams came true briefly when my father bought a discounted TRS-80 personal computer from the local Radio Shack. Not long after, the store chain discontinued the product, which apparently had the nickname “Trash-80” from critics. It had, by today’s standards, an incredibly bulky screen and keyboard. Files were saved onto a 5-inch floppy disk or a magnetic cassette tape. Until it perished, I created simple games and animations using the aptly named B.A.S.I.C. language (Beginner’s All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code). My digital graphics even provided a fake FBI piracy warning, title, and credits for a stop-motion video, filmed with the help of an elder brother. A small Casio music keyboard provided the soundtrack. At Madera High School, I moved on to using Apple computers to produce “The Maderan” school newspaper, which grew to rival The Madera Tribune in size and sophistication, for publication once every four weeks. For me, computers became mainly tools for writing, photography, and art. But I still dabbled in creating story games and music using B.A.S.I.C. on a secondhand Epson Equity D.O.S. (Disk Operating System) computer at home. At Drake University in Iowa, every student’s room included free cable television, a computer, and access to an alien bit of magic known as the Internet. They became addictions, although initially the “web” consisted of image-less text — mostly from schools and government agencies. For a half dozen years, I became a reclusive “wizard” (a volunteer programmer in a C language) for text-only, multiplayer, online, role-playing games known as M.U.D.s (Multi-User Dimensions). They were forefathers of Massively Multiplayer Online (MMO) games. Embarrassingly, high-ranking wizards were referred to as “gods” and “demigods” of the virtual worlds they created and ruled. Video game addicts and their de facto widows, please don’t hate me for my tiny role in history. I realize now that “with great power comes great responsibility” (thanks, Spider-Man). I intend to help wreak less social havoc with my worldwide web-slinging superpowers this time around, depending on the havoc. One aid in programming is the “algorithm,” which is a detailed way to handle a problem better. The idea is hardly new. The word itself dates to the late 17th century, and Christians have claimed for two millennia they’ve found the perfect “way” — in Jesus. Yet, as Pope Francis noted Tuesday, “the path of Jesus Christ [is] abasement, humility, [and] humiliation as well. If a thought, if a desire, takes you along the road of humility and abasement, of service to others, it is from Jesus. But if it brings you to the road of sufficiency, of vanity, ... it is not from Jesus.” Christians believe the path of Jesus includes a love generous enough to accept even a death marked by rejection (Philippians 2:5-8). Francis concluded: “So many times, our heart is a road. Everything passes there. Put it to the test! Do I always choose the things that come from God? Do I know which are the things that come from God? Do I know the true criterion by which to discern my thoughts, my desires? ... The criterion is the Incarnation of the Word.” For believers, Jesus is our algorithm. By John Rieping | Published 21 Dec. 2013 in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved
The elderly widow of the tribe of Asher took each step carefully as she climbed the stairs up mount Moriah, upon which stood Solomon's Temple and the highest point within the metropolis of Jerusalem. The stone would not be forgiving if she fell. Though not a festival or holy day, Hannah would have company enough. Services took place daily. Each week a new shift of priests, chosen from all parts of the land, would perform all the functions of the temple, with a different priestly family responsible for each day and all working together on the Sabbath. Few faces were familiar to her. But she did not come for them. No, the daughter of Phanuel lived up to her sire's name, for she longed for the "face of God" ("penuel" in Hebrew). At the top of the stairs she rested, her vigor slowed by age and fasting. But she had learned patience. Behind her the city sprawled, each quarter set apart by sandy, gray and white walls. The roads flowed with people, though not equally or always well. The cool of morning was preferable to the heat of the afternoon. The interior courtyards of rich homes lay exposed from above, encircled by narrow buildings that looked like absurdly thick walls, some with red sloping roofs and others topped flat -- private paths upon which to look down or out on the city. The homes of the poor were not so impressive, but no less lively. In either case, all manner of washing, play and work could be seen -- and all seemed equally small now. They did not captivate her attention as in younger years. Her eyes may have lingered, out of reverence, upon a square building rising above the others with a pyramid-like top pointing to the heavens. Within it the bones of King David rested. How long until one of his kin would sit again upon the throne instead of a puppet of Rome? When would come the mashiah? (Hebrew for "anointed one," in Greek "christos") Hannah continued onward toward her daily appointment with the love of her life. The view of Jerusalem could be contemplated no more as she walked upon the wide open space of the temple mount, lined with great roof-topped pillars on all sides. Here was enough room for several temples (or 24 football fields), but such multiplicity was unthinkable. On great festival days, massive crowds could be seen here, human overflow from the one temple of the one god. Smoke rose from the altar of sacrifice, hidden in the heart of the temple, which sat tall at the center of the level top of mount Moriah. "Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place?" sang the psalmist in her memory. "He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to what is false, and does not swear deceitfully... Such is the generation of those who seek him, who seek the face of the God of Jacob." (Tehilim/Psalm 24:3-4, 6) Beyond an ornamented railing that non-Jews could not pass, another tier of steps ascended, but a kindly stranger assisted her with them. Soon she entered the walled-in court of the women, the treasury. Beyond it, she too would be allowed no further. Coins clattered in the 13 wooden boxes that could be found between columns that supported a covered passageway surrounding the court. The offerings were dropped into each box via trumpet-shaped openings of bronze, and some liked to guess and judge the generosity of others by listening for the distinctive sound different-sized coins would make. But she had no interest in that. As she walked forward, her eyes spotted a particular crack in a stone and a memory awoke of a woman charged with adultery. The penalty for her fault was death, as dictated by the law (Debarim/Deuteronomy 22:24). Hannah's eyes grew wet, and she directed her heart to God and began her prayers. She remembered the woman, her late husband, her own children and grandchildren, and more. Each loved one led her thoughts to another as she emptied her heart before her God. She lifted each of them up with a trust born of long experience that God listens and cares. "For I know that my redeemer lives, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth." (Job 19:25) Thus she prayed upon the stones, and she was heard. By John Rieping | Published 12 Oct. 2013 in The Madera Tribune | All rights reserved As any squirrel would tell you by its actions, winter is coming as the year cycles through its seasons. Though months away according to the calendar, its presence asserts itself early. (Photograph by John Rieping) Though technically months away, my favorite season of the year approaches. In other parts of the United States, it would be called springtime or even summer, but here in Central California we call it winter. Apart from some temporarily barren trees, the natural world thrives and -- in better years -- normally empty riverbeds flow with life-giving water. The seasons of Advent and Christmas heat hearts even as temperatures chill. I love the flexible aesthetics and comfort found in layers of clothing, and the ability to feel the sharp slap of cold air while warm at one's core. It is a time of life and the romance of raindrops on shelter or skin, the art of delicate frozen frosting on grass blades and windows, and the mystery and -- admittedly-- peril of unpredictable mists. Our winter begins with fog, frosts, and rain, yet ends with blooms. By the time North American spring officially arrives, most of the local flowering has finished and the slow dehydration of the landscape has begun. The climax of the dry and golden-hued days of summer reminds us we live in irrigated deserts and drained wetlands. This is not the cycle for many elsewhere in our nation. Locals would be stunned by the Easter snowfalls and seemingly-apocalyptic late spring and summer lightning storms common to parts of the Midwest -- not to mention the sight of sunbathers on a snowbank. Here even an amateur has a good chance at predicting the day's conditions. In Iowa, we college students would joke: if you don't like the weather, wait a few hours. Just as each region of the world has its own natural rhythms and patterns so it is with peoples and persons. "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot..." (Koheleth/Ecclesiastes 3:1-2). We all have our favorite seasons of the soul and others we do not favor. Yet I believe all of them can be a gift if we trust in the source of all blessings. As the Oxford academic and cardinal John Henry Newman (1801-1890) once said: God "can bless the most unpromising circumstances; He even can lead us forward by means of our mistakes; He can turn our mistakes into a revelation; He can convert us, if He will, through the very obstinacy, or self-will, or superstition, which mixes itself up with our better feelings, and defiles, yet is sanctified by our sincerity." Newman, a convert, is perhaps best remembered today for his poem, "The Pillar of Cloud." He wrote it while his sailing ship, en route to France, remained windless and motionless for a week in the Straits of Bonifacio. Before this trip, he had become ill in Italy and then was unable to find a ship heading to his home of England for nearly three weeks. He finally found an orange boat bound for Marseilles. Throughout he had struggled with impatience and homesickness. Of this he wrote: "Before starting from my inn (in Italy), I sat down on my bed and began to sob bitterly. My servant, who had acted as my nurse, asked what ailed me. I could only answer, 'I have work to do in England.' I was aching to get home." Yet God breathes over still waters and amidst the imprisoning calm of the sea Newman penned these words: "Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom, / Lead Thou me on! / The night is dark, and I am far from home, / Lead Thou me on! / Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see / The distant scene; one step enough for me. "I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou / Shouldst lead me on; / I loved to choose and see my path; but now / Lead Thou me on! / I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, / Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years! "So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still / Will lead me on. / O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till / The night is gone, / And with the morn those angel faces smile, / Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile! "Meantime, along the narrow rugged path, / Thyself hast trod, / Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith, / Home to my God. / To rest forever after earthly strife / In the calm light of everlasting life." |
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