The Right Must Win

O it is hard to work for God

To rise and take His part

Upon this bat­tle­field of earth

And not some­times lose heart!

He hides Him­self so won­drous­ly

As though there were no God;

He is least seen when all the pow­ers

Of ill are most abroad;

Or He de­serts us at the hour

The fight is all but lost;

And seems to leave us to our­selves

Just when we need Him most.

O there is less to try our faith

In our mys­te­ri­ous creed

Than in the god­less look of earth

In these our hours of need.

Ill mas­ters good; good seems to change

To ill with great­est ease;

And

worst of all

the good with good

Is at cross pur­pos­es.

The Church

the sac­ra­ments

the faith

Their up­hill journey take

Lose here what there they gain

and

if

We lean up­on them

break.

It is not so

but so it looks;

And we lose cour­age then;

And doubts will come if God hath kept

His pro­mis­es to men.

Ah! God is oth­er than we think

His ways are far ab­ove

Far be­yond rea­son’s height

and reached

Only by child­like love.

The look

the fa­shion of God’s ways

Love’s life­long stu­dy are;

She can be bold

and guess

and act

When rea­son would not dare.

She has a pru­dence of her own;

Her step is firm and free;

There is cau­tious sci­ence

too

In her sim­pli­ci­ty.

Workman of God! O lose not heart

But learn what God is like

And in the dark­est bat­tle­field

Thou shalt know where to strike.

O blest is he to whom is giv­en

The in­stinct that can tell

That God is on the field

when He

Is the most in­vi­si­ble!

And blest is he who can di­vine

Where real right doth lie

And dares to take the side that seems

Wrong to man’s blind­fold eye!

O learn to scorn the praise of men!

And learn to lose with God!

For Je­sus won the world through shame

And beck­ons thee His road.

God’s glo­ry is a won­drous thing

Most strange in all its ways

And

of all things on earth

least like

What men agree to praise.

As He can end­less glo­ry weave

From time’s mis­judg­ing shame

In His own world He is con­tent

To play a los­ing game.

Muse on His jus­tice

down­cast soul!

Muse and take bet­ter heart;

Back with thine an­gel to the field

Good luck shall crown thy part!

God’s jus­tice is a bed where we

Our anx­ious hearts may lay

And

wea­ry with our­selves

may sleep

Our dis­con­tent away

For right is right

since God is God

And right the day must win;

To doubt would be dis­loy­al­ty

To fal­ter were to sin!