THE TOILING OF FELIX

Hear a word that Jesus spake

Nineteen hundred years ago,

Where the crimson lilies blow

Round the blue Tiberian lake:

There the bread of life He brake,

Through the fields of harvest walking

With His lowly comrades, talking

Of the secret thoughts that feed

Weary souls in time of need.

Art thou hungry? Come and take;

Hear the word that Jesus spake!

‘ Tis the sacrament of labour, bread and wine divinely blest;

Friendship's food and sweet refreshment, strength and courage, joy and rest.

But this word the Master said

Long ago and far away,

Silent and forgotten lay

Buried with the silent dead,

Where the sands of Egypt spread

Sea-like, tawny billows heaping

Over ancient cities sleeping,

While the River Nile between

Rolls its summer flood of green

Rolls its autumn flood of red:

There the word the Master said,

Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire, and torn,

Hidden by God's hand was waiting for its resurrection morn.

Now at last the buried word

By the delving spade is found,

Sleeping in the quiet ground.

Now the call of life is heard:

Rise again, and like a bird,

Fly abroad on wings of gladness

Through the darkness and the sadness,

Of the toiling age, and sing

Sweeter than the voice of Spring,

Till the hearts of men are stirred

By the music of the word,—

Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to the labourer's cry:

“Raise the stone, and thou shall find me; cleave the wood and there am I.”