There lives no man whose flesh is scarred
like mine,
The scourge and rod have graven deep their
brands,
And Lystra’s stones have left
A wound that will not heal.
Fastings and watchings, tossings on the
deep,
Hot suns, keen frosts upon the mountain
height,
These have made life as death,
And brought the snows of age.
And now I fail and wither ere my time,
The sharp thorn pierceth ever more and more;
But
this, at least, I gain;
My life is henceforth free.
Free, because branded as the slave of
Christ,
To my own Master I stand or fall:
Let
man from troubling cease,
And leave me as I am.
Debaters, slanderers, building fallen towers,
Warring against the citadel of Truth,
Ye cannot touch the peace
Deep hid with Christ in God.
So spake the great
Apostle, and we too,
By the same path
may equal freedom gain,
Secure
in inward calm,
Though
storm-blasts round us rage.
And in that faith
we bid our troublers cease,
The tempters to
despair, or doubt, or pride,
They
shall not mar our peace,
Nor
separate from Him.
No, neither life,
nor death, nor pain, nor joy,
Nor all that
worketh in the height or depth,
God’s
chosen ones can hurt Or
banish from His Love.
Image source: Rembrandt, The Apostle Paul in Prison (1631)
Poem source: Edward Hayes Plumptre, I Bear in My Body the Marks of the Lord Jesus
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