Sunday, March 5, 2017

Thy servant, Lord, hath nothing in the house


Thy servant, Lord, hath nothing in the house,
Not even one small pot of common oil;
For he who never cometh but to spoil
Hath raised my poor house again, 
That ruthless strong man, armed,
whom men call Pain.

I thought that I had courage in the house,
And patience to be quiet and endure,
And sometimes happy songs. 
Now I am sure Thy servant truly hath not anything;
And see, my song-bird hath a broken wing. 

My servant, I have come into the house
I who know Pain's extremity so well
That there can never be the need to tell
His power to make the flesh and spirit quail:
Have I not felt the scourge, the thorn, the nail?

And I, his Conqueror, am in the house,
Let not your heart be troubled---do not fear:
Why shouldst thou, child of Mine, if I am here?
My touch will heal thy song-bird's broken wing,
And he shall have a braver song to sing. 

Amy Carmichael, Nothing in the House


Anonymous said...

Dear Kinuko,thank you so much for introducing this poem here.
This poem astonished me by its seriousness.
Amy Carmichael's life and what she wrote still seem to challenge and encourage us at the same time.


Kinuko H said...

Thank you, Sanae, for encouraging me to publish this poem. I think without your encouragement, this blog has long been closed down.Thank you again for everything, yes, everything...Kinuko