The Call of David

Latest born of Jesse’s race,
Wonder lights thy bashful face,
While the Prophet’s gifted oil
Seals thee for a path of toil.
We, thy Angels, circling round thee,
Ne’er shall find thee as we found thee,
When thy faith first brought us near
In thy lion-fight severe.

Go! and mid thy flocks awhile
At thy doom of greatness smile;
Bold to bear God’s heaviest load,
Dimly guessing of the road⁠—
Rocky road, and scarce ascended,
Though thy foot be angel-tended.

Twofold praise thou shalt attain,
In royal court and battle plain;
Then comes heart-ache, care, distress,
Blighted hope, and loneliness;
Wounds from friend and gifts from foe,
Dizzied faith, and guilt, and woe;
Loftiest aims by earth defiled,
Gleams of wisdom sin-beguiled,
Sated power’s tyrannic mood,
Counsels shared with men of blood,
Sad success, parental tears,
And a dreary gift of years.

Strange, that guileless face and form
To lavish on the scarring storm!
Yet we take thee in thy blindness,
And we buffet thee in kindness;
Little chary of thy fame⁠—
Dust unborn may bless or blame⁠—
But we mould thee for the root
Of man’s promised healing Fruit,
And we mould thee hence to rise,
As our brother, to the skies.