THE MINISTRY OF INTERCESSION

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

There is no holy service But hath its secret bliss:
Yet, of all blessed ministries, Is one so dear as this?
The ministry that cannot be A wondering seraph's dower,
Enduing mortal weakness With more than angel-power;
The ministry of purest love Uncrossed by any fear,
That bids us meet at the Master's feet And keeps us very near.

God's ministers are many, For this His gracious will,
Remembrancers that day and night This holy office fill.
While some are hushed in slumber, Some to fresh service wake,
And thus the saintly number No change or chance can break.
And thus the sacred courses Are evermore fulfilled,
The tide of grace by time or place Is never stayed or stilled.

Oh, if our ears were opened To hear as angels do
The Intercession-chorus Arising full and true,
We should hear its soft up-welling In morning's pearly light;
Through evening's shadows swelling In grandly gathering might;
The sultry silence filling Of noontide's thunderous glow,
And the solemn starlight Thrilling With ever-deepening flow.

We should hear it through the rushing Of the city's restless roar,
And trace its gentle gushing O'er ocean's crystal floor:
We should hear it far up-floating Beneath the Orient moon,
And catch the golden noting From the busy Western noon;
And pine-robed heights would echo As the mystic chant up-floats,
And the sunny plain resound again With the myriad-mingling notes.

Who are the blessed ministers Of this world-gathering band?
All who have learned one language, Through each far-parted land;
All who have learned the story Of Jesu's love and grace,
And are longing for His glory To shine in every face.
All who have known the Father In Jesus Christ our Lord,
And know the might and love the light Of the Spirit in the Word.

Yet there are some who see not Their calling high and grand,
Who seldom pass the portals, And never boldly stand
Before the golden altar On the crimson-stained floor,
Who wait afar and falter, And dare not hope for more.
Will ye not join the blessed ranks In their beautiful array?
Let intercession blend with thanks As ye minister to-day!

There are little ones among them, Child-ministers of prayer,
White robes of intercession Those tiny servants wear.
First for the near and dear ones Is that fair ministry,
Then for the poor black children So far beyond the sea.
The busy hands are folded, as the little heart uplifts
In simple love, to God above, Its prayer for all good gifts.

There are hands too often weary With the business of the day,
With God-entrusted duties, Who are toiling while they pray.
They bear the golden vials, And the golden harps of praise,
Through all the daily trials, Through all the dusty ways.
These hands, so tired, so faithful, With odors sweet are filled,
And in the ministry of prayer Are wonderfully skilled.

There are ministers unlettered, Not of earth's great and wise,
Yet mighty and unfettered Their eagle-prayers arise.
Free of the heavenly storehouse! For they hold the master-key
That opens all the fulness Of God's great treasury.
They bring the needs of others, And all things are their own,
For their one grand claim is Jesu's name Before their Father's throne.

There are noble Christian workers, The men of faith and power,
The overcoming wrestlers Of many a midnight hour;
Prevailing princes with their God, Who will not be denied,
Who bring down showers of blessing To swell the rising tide.
The Prince of Darkness quaileth At their triumphant way,
Their fervent prayer availeth To sap his subtle sway.

But in this temple service Are sealed and set apart
Arch-priests of intercession, Of undivided heart.
The fulness of anointing On these is doubly shed,
The consecration of their God Is on each low-bowed head.
They bear the golden vials With white and trembling hand;
In quiet room or wakeful gloom These ministers must stand,-

To the Intercession-Priesthood Mysteriously ordained,
When the strange dark gift of suffering This added gift hath gained.
For the holy hands uplifted In suffering's longest hour
Are truly Spirit-gifted With intercession-power.
The Lord of blessing fills them With His uncounted gold,
An unseen store, still more and more Those trembling hands shall hold.

Not always with rejoicing This ministry is wrought,
For many a sigh is mingled With the sweet odors brought.
Yet every tear bedewing The faith-fed altar fire
May be its bright renewing To purer flame, and higher.
But when the oil of gladness God graciously outpours,
The heavenward blaze, with blended praise More mightily upsoars.

So the incense-cloud ascendeth As through calm, crystal air,
A pillar reaching unto heaven Of wreathed faith and prayer.
For evermore the Angel Of Intercession stands
In His Divine High Priesthood, With fragrance-filled hands,
To wave the golden censer Before His Father's throne,
With Spirit-fire intenser, And incense all His own.

And evermore the Father Sends radiantly down
All-marvellous responses, His ministers to crown;
The incense cloud returning As golden blessing-showers,
We in each drop discerning Some feeble prayer of ours,
Transmuted into wealth unpriced, By Him who giveth thus
The glory all to Jesus Christ, The gladness all to us!

(taken from Andrew Murray's book The Ministry of Intercession, 1898, Fleming H. Revell Company. In library of Miles E. Bennett)


"May God open our eyes to see what the holy ministry of intercession is, to which, as His royal priesthood, we have been set apart. May He give us a large and strong heart to believe what mighty influence our prayers can exert. And may all fear as to our being able to fulfill our vocation vanish as we see Jesus, living ever to pray, living in us to pray, and standing surety for our prayer life." - Andrew Murray