Tuesday 11 August 2015

The Call

See from the hills that river run
Red as the rays of the setting sun.
What is there in that ripping rill
That makes my saddened senses thrill?
’Tis blood! red blood! It cries to me
From the storm-swept hills of Gallipoli.

List to the mother’s mournful moan,
As she nurses grief; unseen, alone.
“Oh, river of death; Thou hast borne away
My joy, and turned to night my day,
For the child of my love and prayers, ah me!
Is filling a grave in Gallipoli."

Hark to her voice within that cry
Pleading with pent-up agony,
’Tis my Master speaks: “Would My servant share
My glorious crown and mansions fair?
Take up thy cross and follow Me
To the moaning hills of Gallipoli.”

Humbly I follow on, spurred by that call,
Seeing through cloud and mist His love o’er all,
Bruised and torn, maybe, yet not dismayed,
Looking to Him for strength and aid,
Hastening to that glad day, when all shall see
The Christ of the Cross in Gallipoli.

Riddell’s Creek. J.S.

The Witness, 22 October, 1915

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