Wounded

Only a look and a motion that nobody saw or heard.

Only a look and a motion that nobody saw or heard.
Past in a moment and over, with never the sound of a word;
Streams of converse around me smoothly and cheerily flow,
But a terrible stab has been given, a silent and staggering blow.

Guesses the hand that gave it hardly a tithe of the smart,
Nothing at all of the anguish that fiercely leapt up in my heart,
Scorching and scathing its peace, while a tremulous nerve to the brain
Flashed up a telegram sudden, a message of quivering pain.

They must be merry without me, for how can I sing to-night?
They will only think I am tired, and thought- fully shade the light;
Finger and voice would fail while the wound is open and sore;
Bleeding away the strength I had gathered for days before.

Only a look and a motion! Yes, but we little know
How from each dwarf-like “only” a giant of power may grow:
The thundering avalanche crushes, loosened by only a breath,
And only a colorless drop may be laden with sudden death.

Only a word of command, but it loses or wins the field;
Only a stroke of the pen, but a heart is broken or healed;
Only a step may sever, pole-wide, future and past;
Only a touch may rivet links which for life shall last.

Only a look and a motion!  Why was the wound so deep?
Were it no echo of sorrow, hushed for awhile to sleep,
Were  it no shadow of fear, far o’er the future thrown,
Slight were the suffering now, if it bore on the present alone.

Ah! I would smile it away, but ’tis all too fresh and too keen;
Perhaps I may some day recall it as if it had never been;
Now I can only be still, and endure where I cannot cope,
Praying for meekness and patience, praying for faith and hope.

Is it an answer already that words to my mind are brought,
Floating like shining liles on waters of gloomiest thought?
Simple and short is the sentence, but oh! What it comprehends!
“Those with which I was wounded, in the house of My friends.”

Floating still on my heart, while I listen again and again,
Stilling the anxious throbbing, soothing the icy pain,
Proving its sacred mission healing and balm to bring.
“Coming?”  Yes, if you want me!  Yes, I am ready to sing.

Frances Ridley Havergal