Joseph Scriven lived his early life in the north of Ireland. At age twenty-four, on the night before he was scheduled to be married, his fiancée was thrown from her horse into a river, where she drowned as Scriven looked on helplessly. To distance himself from his grief, Scriven moved to Canada, where he devoted himself at the cost of personal poverty to ministry and service to the disadvantaged.

And as ev’ry drop of Garda’s lake Is tinged with the sapphire’s blue; So all the powers of my mind partake Of joy at the thought of you.

The Mystery of Life

SOLITUDE! where shall I find Thee, pleasing to the thoughtful mind? Sweet delights to thee belong, Untasted by the vulgar throng.

AUTHOR of Being, Source of Light, With unfading beauties bright, Fulness, Goodness, rolling round Thy own fair orb without a bound:

This pretty bird, O! how she flies and sings, But could she do so if she had not wings?

The water is the fish’s element; Take her from thence, none can her death prevent;

Flint is an emblem is of those that lie!

I fancy that I see a little light

Methinks I see a sight most excellent

The egg’s no chick by falling from the hen; Nor man a Christian, till he’s born again.

What is the vine, more than another tree?

Thou simple bird, what makes thou here to play?

Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!