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THE SACRIFICIAL LOAF AND CUP
A broken loaf—a cup of crimson wine,
On snowy table laid,
Ah! emblems these of wondrous sacrifice—
The costly price, He paid!
That precious body, broken once for me,
That precious blood once spilt—
For me, that I through Him might be made free,
Aye, free—from death and guilt!
And has this broken loaf, this crimson wine,
A further meaning still?
Ah, yes! thro’ grace I am a part of Him,
His sufferings to fulfil.
My body to be broken with my Lord,
My blood with His be shed,
And as I die with Him, with Him I live,
My ever glorious Head!
O wondrous mystery! O glorious thought!
Thro’ death with Him I rise!
Suffering with Him, I with Him too shall reign,
Triumphant in the skies!
Yet on this night—before this snowy board,
Spread with this bread and wine,
Canst thou say truly, O my soul, my soul,
“These promises are mine”?
Is all thy will completely blent with His,
Whate’er may be that will?
Art willing to be crushed, that thy life’s wine
May thus flow out to fill
And bless and nourish other lives than thine,
That they may bud and flower?
Art glad and thankful that thy broken life
Shall have vicarious power?
And canst thou to His precious will say “Yes,“
E’en tho’ with tear-dimmed eyes
And quivering lips of pain and throbbing heart?
And when His love denies
What thy poor heart had thought its very own,
And brings to thee instead
Experiences thou canst not understand—
A pathway hard to tread—
Wilt thou still say “Amen,” and trust Him still,
And wait in patient love,
Till He shall say, “It is enough, My child,
Come to thy Home above”?
And when His Truth is ridiculed and scorned,
And His dear “Servant,” like his blessed Lord,
Is spat upon, and crowned with thorns, dost thou
REJOICE yet more to own His Word?
“Yes, yes!” my glad heart answers, “I REJOICE
This privilege sweet to own!
And I will kiss my cross, and wait Thy time,
Dear Lord, to share Thy Throne.”
Then, oh my soul, these emblems are for thee—
This broken loaf, this wine—
And thou may’st claim His precious promises,
For they are truly thine.
The hour is late—the end is drawing nigh—
And as we gather here,
Brethren beloved, to share this holy feast,
We know the time is near
When all His loved ones shall be gathered Home,
Our tears all wiped away,
And all the shadows that oppress us here
Shall yield to perfect day.
Then with rejoicing let us now partake,
Our journey’s almost o’er;
The light is breaking o’er the Heavenly hills!
Our King is at the door!
ALICE G. JAMES.
— March 1, 1913 —