Classic Poem

What were those marks, apostle blest,
Of thy dear Lord on thee impress'd,
Marks speaking more than words can tell
Of sufferings ineffaceable;
Badges of honour meekly borne
And gladly for the Master's name,
Which baffled all the proud world's scorn
And made thee glory in its shame?

Were they the records of distress,
Of hunger, cold and nakedness,
Of travel, toil and misery,
Of desert wilds and wrecks by sea?
Were they the deeply graven scars
Of scourges and the lictor's rod,
Of gyves and chains and prison bars
And deaths unnumber'd dared for God?

Or were they, servant of the Lord,
His tokens whom thy soul adored?
The signet on thy mortal brow
Of visions none had seen but thou?
The dazzled sight, the faltering tongue,
A thorn that pierced the quivering flesh,
And, though thy heart to Jesus clung,
Daily drew tears of blood afresh?

We know not and we would not know
The secret of thy human woe;
Still let the tender veil be drawn
Till break of heaven's unclouded dawn:
Enough for us, those graven dints
Were marks of Jesus on thy frame;
Enough, if, only love's imprints
Stamp'd on our bosom are the same.