The Stundist in Siberian Exile AND OTHER POEMS, William Fetler, 1922

ard—and I enjoy it now ! That I may rest, He ran for me the race ! May 24, 1919. 4 6 THE BURIAL THE BURIAL Romans vi. n. And thus I went into the grave— The hidden grave, and cold— To lose my soul and not to save Life that was not yet old ; From turmoil and unrighteousness I went for peace and quietness— All that I had I sold. With nothing left of all my own Now I could follow Him ; With Christ alone upon my throne All other light was dim ; Now, “ Jesus only ”—what a bliss ! I wonder whether joy as this Have e’en the cherubim I The way into the grave is dark. But at the end is light ; I go now by the blood-stained mark, But then through lilies white. Rough stones though now do cut my feet— Hail ! City of the golden street, Of sapphire, chrysolite 1 December 24, 1918. “ HOLINESS ” 47 “ HOLINESS ” If Christian walk is only talk— From such Christianity I’d balk ! For there is nothing so repelling As words, mere words, with goodness swelling. The nobler, holier, your speaking— Your testifying, singing, praying— Lo, there is nothing so betraying As empty life, and aimless seeking. The Master’s judgment of the tree Whose pride lay solely in its leaves. Was not too harsh. And though He grieves. He looks just so at you and me. For if He plants you in His soil, Applies to you His love and toil, He rightly can expect returns— The fruitless branch dries up and bums ! I'm saved by Grace, but not to sin, I'm born again to be God’s child ; And if, before, I acted wild, Now meek and lowly, loving, mild, My character and life must be, For Christ has come tQ live in me. 4 8 " HOLINESS ” If I a raven were before, And, though I struggled, could not sing— Since Christ is mine, I live no more; He lives in me, the Nightingale Of Paradise, of vernal Spring. Filled with His Spirit, now doth ring Rich with His music every dale ! The ancient saints did testify, Of Joy, and Strength, of Grace for Grace, But nowadays we wail and sigh With graveyard-looks upon our face ! True, we shall die, but not for aye, Once buried we must rise again. The night is past, eternal day Has dawned for resurrected men. Chime, Easter Bells ! The empty grave Is full of light and vernal flowers ! Chime, Easter Bells ! This joy is ours— God to the uttermost doth save ! Not merely words, but real life, Not passing sentiment, but fact. By faith is ended helpless strife. Ours is believing—His to act ! September 6, 1918. IVAN NIKITICH IS ARRESTED REFINING 49 REFINING " He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver /'— Mal. iii. 3. What patience and what love and hope He shows toward the piece of ore ! He keeps His furnaces ablaze, He watches as the metal melts, Glad at the separating dross. What heat ! What trying, dying hours The silver ore is passing through— Well-nigh despairing as the flames Attack again on e