Hark! that chime of heaven's far bells! On the monk's rapt ear it swells, No! fond, flattering dream, away! Mercy calls; no longer stay! Whom thou yearnest here to find In the musings of thy mind, God and Jesus, lo, they wait Knocking at thy convent gate!

From his knees the monk arose; With full heart and hand he goes, At his gate the poor relieves, Gains a blessing and receives; To his cell returned, and there Found the angel of his prayer, Who with radiant features said, "Hadst thou stayed I must have fled."

—Charles Timothy Brooks.

THE HEAVENLY PRESENCE

Somewhere I have read of an aged monk Who, kneeling one day in his cell, Beheld in a glorious vision the form Of the dear Lord Christ; and there fell

Upon him a rapture, wondrously sweet, And his lips could frame no word, As he gazed on the form and noted the love That beamed from the face of his Lord.

There came to his ears the sound of a bell Which called him early and late To carry loaves to the wretched poor Who lingered about the gate.

Could he leave his cell now glorified By the presence of the Christ, The Blessed Son, the Holy One, His Saviour, the Sacrificed?

He went to his act of mercy, and when He returned to his cell, the dim Gay light was dispelled as the loving Christ Re-entered to welcome him.

And the Blessed One remained, more fair, More glorious than before, And the heart of the aged monk was glad, And his cell was dim no more.

"Draw nigh and abide with me, O Christ, All through this day," is the prayer Which sounds from my heart, and my lips repeat Each morning, and Christ, the Fair,

Seems very near as his words I hear, Though his form I do not see; "When you care for the least of these, dear child, You have done it unto me.

"With loving service fill all this day, Do good in the name of your Lord, And I will be near, your heart to cheer, According to my word."

—William Norris Burr.

ONLY

It was only a blossom, Just the merest bit of bloom, But it brought a glimpse of summer To the little darkened room.

It was only a glad "good morning," As she passed along the way; But it spread the morning's glory Over the livelong day.

Only a song; but the music, Though simply pure and sweet, Brought back to better pathways The reckless roving feet.

"Only," in our blind wisdom, How dare we say at all? Since the ages alone can tell us Which is the great or small.

SOMETHING YOU CAN DO

Hark! the voice of Jesus calling, "Who will go and work to-day? Fields are white and harvests waiting, Who will bear the sheaves away?" Loud and long the Master calleth, Rich reward he offers free; Who will answer, gladly saying, "Here am I, send me, send me."

If you cannot cross the ocean And the heathen lands explore, You can find the heathen nearer, You can help them at your door; If you cannot give your thousands You can give the widow's mite; And the least you give for Jesus Will be precious in his sight.

If you cannot speak like angels, If you cannot preach like Paul, You can tell the love of Jesus, You can say he died for all. If you cannot rouse the wicked With the Judgment's dread alarms, You can lead the little children To the Saviour's waiting arms.

Let none hear you idly saying "There is nothing I can do," While the sons of men are dying, And the Master calls for you. Take the task he gives you gladly, Let his work your pleasure be; Answer quickly, when he calleth, "Here am I, send me, send me."

—Daniel March.

SEEDTIME

Sow thou thy seed! Glad is the light of Spring—the sun is glowing. Do thou thy deed: Who knows when flower or deed shall cease its growing?

Thy seed may be Bearer of thousands scattered far and near; Eternity May feel the impress of the deed done here.

—Arthur L. Salmon.

TOIL A BLESSING

The toil of brain, or heart, or hand, Is man's appointed lot; He who God's call can understand Will work and murmur not. Toil is no thorny crown of pain, Bound round man's brow for sin; True souls, from it, all strength may gain, High manliness may win.

O God! who workest hitherto, Working in all we see, Fain would we be, and bear, and do, As best it pleaseth thee. Where'er thou sendest we will go, Nor any questions ask, And that thou biddest we will do, Whatever be the task.

Our skill of hand, and strength of limb, Are not our own, but thine; We link them to the work of Him Who made all life divine. Our brother-friend, thy holy Son, Shared all our lot and strife; And nobly will our work be done If molded by his life.

—Thomas W. Freckelton.

No service in itself is small; None great, though earth it fill; But that is small that seeks its own, And great that seeks God's will.

Then hold my hand, most gracious God, Guide all my goings still; And let it be my life's one aim, To know and do thy will.

EASILY GIVEN

It was only a sunny smile, And little it cost in the giving; But it scattered the night Like morning light, And made the day worth living. Through life's dull warp a woof it wove, In shining colors of light and love, And the angels smiled as they watched above, Yet little it cost in giving.

It was only a kindly word, And a word that was lightly spoken; Yet not in vain, For it stilled the pain Of a heart that was nearly broken. It strengthened a fate beset by fears And groping blindly through mists of tears For light to brighten the coming years, Although it was lightly spoken.

It was only a helping hand, And it seemed of little availing; But its clasps were warm, And it saved from harm A brother whose strength was failing. Its touch was tender as angels' wings, But it rolled the stone from the hidden springs, And pointed the way to higher things, Though it seemed of little availing.

A smile, a word, a touch, And each is easily given; Yet one may win A soul from sin Or smooth the way to heaven. A smile may lighten a falling heart, A word may soften pain's keenest smart, A touch may lead us from sin apart— How easily each is given!

WORKING WITH CHRIST

O matchless honor, all unsought, High privilege, surpassing thought That thou shouldst call us, Lord, to be Linked in work-fellowship with thee! To carry out thy wondrous plan, To bear thy messages to man; "In trust," with Christ's own word of grace To every soul of human race.

THE "NEW LOGION"

"Jesus saith," and His deep Saying who shall rightly understand, Rescued from the grasp of ages, risen from its grave of sand? Who shall read its mystic meaning, who explain its import high: "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Does it mean the stone-built altar, and the cleft-wood for its fire, That with sacrificial offering shall the soul to God aspire, Purged and pure from sin's defilement, lifting holy hands on high, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Does it mean that toil and action are the price that man shall pay, Striving the strait gait to enter, pressing on the narrow way, Clearing it from shade and hindrance, with strong arm and purpose high, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Does it mean that he who seeketh may Thy presence always see In the common things around him, in the stone and in the tree, Underlying, all-pervading, Soul of Nature, ever nigh, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I"?

Yea, in all our work and worship, in our quiet, in our strife, In the daily, busy handwork, in the soul's most ardent life, Each may read his own true meaning of the Saying deep and high, "Raise the stone and thou shalt find Me, cleave the wood and there am I."

—Mrs. Henry B. Smith.

He's true to God, who's true to man; wherever wrong is done, To the humblest and the weakest, 'neath the all-beholding sun, That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves most base Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race.

—James Russell Lowell.

HER CREED

She stood before a chosen few, With modest air and eyes of blue; A gentle creature, in whose face Were mingled tenderness and grace.

"You wish to join our fold," they said; "Do you believe in all that's read From ritual and written creed, Essential to our human need?"

A troubled look was in her eyes; She answered, as in vague surprise, As though the sense to her were dim. "I only strive to follow Him."

They knew her life, how oft she stood, Pure in her guileless maidenhood, By dying bed, in hovel lone, Whose sorrow she had made her own.

Oft had her voice in prayer been heard, Sweet as the note of any bird; Her hand been open in distress; Her joy to brighten and to bless.

Yet still she answered, when they sought To know her inmost, earnest thought, With look as of the seraphim "I only strive to follow Him."

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

WAKING THOUGHTS

Another day God gives me, pure and white. How can I make it holy in his sight? Small means have I and but a narrow sphere, Yet work is round me, for he placed me here. How can I serve thee, Lord? Open mine eyes; Show me the duty that around me lies.

"The house is small, but human hearts are there, And for this day at least beneath thy care. Someone is sad—then speak a word of cheer; Someone is lonely—make him welcome here; Someone has failed—protect him from despair; Someone is poor—there's something you can spare!

"Thine own heart's sorrow mention but in prayer, And carry sunshine with thee everywhere. The little duties do with all thine heart And from things sordid keep a mind apart; Then sleep, my child, and take a well-earned rest, In blessing others thou thyself art blest!"

LONELY SERVICE

Methought that in a solemn church I stood; Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, Lay spread from door to door, from street to street. Midway the form hung high upon the rood Of Him who gave his life to be our good. Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet Among the candles, shining still and sweet. Men came and went, and worshipped as they could— And still their dust a woman with her broom, Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door. Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, Across the church a silent figure come; "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor." "It is the Lord!" I cried, and saw no more.

—George Macdonald.

SHARE YOUR BLESSINGS

Dig channels for the streams of love, Where they may broadly run, And love has overflowing streams To fill them every one. But if at any time thou cease Such channels to provide, The very founts of love to thee Will soon be parched and dried. For thou must share if thou wouldst keep That good thing from above; Ceasing to share you cease to have; Such is the law of love.

ONLY A LITTLE

Only a seed—but it chanced to fall In a little cleft of a city wall, And taking root, grew bravely up Till a tiny blossom crowned its top.

Only a thought—but the work it wrought Could never by tongue or pen be taught; For it ran through a life like a thread of gold, And the life bore fruit—a hundred fold.

Only a word—but 'twas spoken in love, With a whispered prayer to the Lord above; And the angels in heaven rejoiced once more, For a new-born soul "entered in by the door."

PAUL AT MELITA

Secure in his prophetic strength, The water peril o'er, The many-gifted man at length Stepped on the promised shore.

He trod the shore; but not to rest, Nor wait till angels came; Lo! humblest pains the saint attest, The firebrands and the flame.

But when he felt the viper's smart, Then instant aid was given. Christian, hence learn to do thy part, And leave the rest to Heaven.

—John Henry Newman.

All service ranks the same with God; If now, as formerly He trod Paradise, His presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work—God's puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first.

Say not "a small event!" Why "small"? Costs it more pain that this, ye call A "great event," should come to pass Than that? Untwine me, from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in, or exceed.

—Robert Browning.

What will it matter in a little while That for a day We met and gave a word, a touch, a smile, Upon the way? These trifles! Can they make or mar Human life? Are souls as lightly swayed as rushes are By love or strife? Yea, yea, a look the fainting heart may break, Or make it whole, And just one word, if said for love's sweet sake, May save a soul.

Get leave to work In this world—'tis the best you get at all; For God in cursing gives us better gifts Than men in benediction. God says, "Sweat For foreheads;" men say "crowns;" and so we are crowned— Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work; get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Be useful where thou livest, that they may Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still; Kindness, good parts, great places, are the way To compass this. Find out men's wants and will, And meet them there. All worldly joys go less To the one joy of doing kindnesses.

—George Herbert.

When He who, sad and weary, longing sore For love's sweet service sought the sisters' door, One saw the heavenly, one the human guest; But who shall say which loved the Master best?

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Oft, when the Word is on me to deliver, Opens the heaven, and the Lord is there. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Then with a rush the intolerable craving Shivers throughout me like a trumpet call— Oh to save these! to perish for their saving, Die for their life, be offered for them all!

No man is born into the world whose work Is not born with him; there is always work, And tools to work withal, for those who will; And blessed are the horny hands of toil!

—James Russell Lowell.

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, In whatso we share with another's need; Not what we give, but what we share, For the gift without the giver is bare; Who gives himself with his alms feeds three: Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me.

—James Russell Lowell.

Look not beyond the stars for heaven, Nor 'neath the sea for hell; Know thou, who leads a useful life In Paradise doth dwell.

—Hafiz, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest friends, bright creature, scorn not one; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

—William Wordsworth.

Mechanic soul, thou must not only do With Martha, but with Mary ponder too; Happy's the home where these fair sisters vary; But most, when Martha's reconciled to Mary.

—Francis Quarles.

If thou hast the gift of strength, then know Thy part is to uplift the trodden low; Else, in the giant's grasp, until the end A hopeless wrestler shall thy soul contend.

—George Meredith.

The best men doing their best Know, peradventure, least of what they do. Men usefullest i' the world are simply used.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

New words to speak, new thoughts to hear, New love to give and take; Perchance new burdens I may bear To-day for love's sweet sake.

He doth good work whose heart can find The spirit 'neath the letter; Who makes his kind of happier mind, Leaves wiser men and better.

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly, Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly, Labor—all labor is noble and holy.

—Frances Sargent Osgood.

In silence mend what ills deform the mind; But all thy good impart to all thy kind.

—John Sterling.

God gave me something very sweet to be mine own this day: A precious opportunity a word for Christ to say.

That best portion of a good man's life— His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.

—William Wordsworth.

Wouldst thou go forth to bless, be sure of thine own ground, Fix well thy center first, then draw thy circle round.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.



BROTHERHOOD

CHARITY, SYMPATHY, EXAMPLE, INFLUENCE

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran— But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by— The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban— Let me live in a house by the side of the road, And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope The men who are faint with the strife. But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears— Both parts of an infinite plan— Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; And the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by— They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish—so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

—Sam Walter Foss.

IS YOUR LAMP BURNING?

Say, is your lamp burning, my brother? I pray you look quickly and see; For if it were burning, then surely Some beams would fall brightly on me.

Straight, straight is the road, but I falter. And oft I fall out by the way; Then lift your lamp higher, my brother, Lest I should make fatal delay.

There are many and many around you Who follow wherever you go; If you thought that they walked in the shadow Your lamp would burn brighter, I know.

Upon the dark mountains they stumble, They are bruised on the rocks, and they lie With their white pleading faces turned upward To the clouds and the pitiful sky.

There is many a lamp that is lighted, We behold them anear and afar, But not many among them, my brother, Shine steadily on, like a star.

I think, were they trimmed night and morning, They would never burn down or go out, Though from the four quarters of heaven The winds were all blowing about.

If once all the lamps that are lighted Should steadily blaze in a line, Wide over the land and the ocean, What a girdle of glory would shine!

How all the dark places would brighten! How the mists would roll up and away! How the earth would laugh out in her gladness To hail the millennial day!

Say, is your lamp burning, my brother? I pray you look quickly and see; For if it were burning, then surely Some beams would fall brightly on me.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

If I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair, And laying snow-white flowers upon my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with lingering caress— Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said— Errands on which the willing feet had sped; The memory of my selfishness and pride, My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully. The eyes that chill me with averted glance Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften in the old familiar way; For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay? So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.

O friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead cold brow. The way is lonely; let me feel them now. Think gently of me; I am travel-worn, My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! When ceaseless bliss is mine I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-night.

—Belle Eugenia Smith.

FRUITION

We scatter seeds with careless hand And dream we ne'er shall see them more, But for a thousand years Their fruit appears In weeds that mar the land Or helpful store.

The deeds we do, the words we say— Into still air they seem to fleet; We count them ever past; But they shall last— In the dread judgment they And we shall meet.

I charge thee by the years gone by, For the love's sake of brethren dear, Keep thou the one true way, In work and play, Lest in that world their cry Of woe thou hear.

—John Keble.

Still shines the light of holy lives Like star beams over doubt; Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives Some dark possession out.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

HAVE CHARITY

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark How far, perhaps, they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord—its various tone, Each spring—its various bias; Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

—Robert Burns.

THE VOICE OF PITY

Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness, O'er the sons of wrong and strife, Were their strong temptations planted In thy path of life?

He alone whose hand is bounding Human power and human will, Looking through each soul's surrounding, Knows its good or ill.

Earnest words must needs be spoken When the warm heart bleeds or burns With its scorn of wrong, or pity For the wronged, by turns.

But, by all thy nature's weakness, Hidden faults and follies known, Be thou, in rebuking evil, Conscious of thine own.

Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty To thy lips her trumpet set, But with harsher blasts shall mingle Wailings of regret.

So when thoughts of evil-doers Waken scorn or hatred move, Shall a mournful fellow-feeling Temper all with love.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

'Tis the Almighty's gracious plan, That man shall be the joy of man.

—From the Scandinavian, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

JUDGE NOT

Judge not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain In God's pure light may only be A scar—brought from some well-won field Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight May be a token that, below, The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe— Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace And cast thee shuddering on thy face!

The fall thou darest to despise— May be the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost; but wait and see With hopeful pity, not disdain, The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain, And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days.

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

THINK GENTLY OF THE ERRING

Think gently of the erring; Ye know not of the power With which the dark temptation came In some unguarded hour; Ye may not know how earnestly They struggled, or how well, Until the hour of weakness came And sadly thus they fell.

Think gently of the erring; Oh, do not thou forget, However darkly stained by sin, He is thy brother yet; Heir of the self-same heritage, Child of the self-same God, He has but stumbled in the path Thou hast in weakness trod.

Speak gently to the erring; For is it not enough That innocence and peace have gone, Without thy censure rough? It sure must be a weary lot, That sin-stained heart to bear, And those who share a happier fate Their chidings well may spare.

Speak gently to the erring; Thou yet mayst lead them back, With holy words and tones of love, From misery's thorny track; Forget not thou hast often sinned, And sinful yet must be; Deal gently with the erring, then, As God has dealt with thee.

—Julia A. Fletcher.

HARSH JUDGMENTS

O God! whose thoughts are brightest light, Whose love runs always clear, To whose kind wisdom sinning souls Amidst their sins are dear,

Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart With charity like thine, Till self shall be the only spot On earth which does not shine.

I often see in my own thoughts, When they lie nearest Thee, That the worst men I ever knew Were better men than me.

He whom no praise can reach is aye Men's least attempts approving; Whom justice makes all-merciful Omniscience makes all-loving.

How thou canst think so well of us Yet be the God thou art, Is darkness to my intellect, But sunshine to my heart.

Yet habits linger in the soul; More grace, O Lord! more grace! More sweetness from thy loving heart! More sunshine from thy face!

The discord is within, which jars So sadly in life's song; 'Tis we, not they, who are in fault, When others seem so wrong.

'Tis we who weigh upon ourselves; Self is the irksome weight; To those who can see straight themselves, All things look always straight.

My God, with what surpassing love Thou lovest all on earth; How good the least good is to thee, How much each soul is worth!

All bitterness is from ourselves; All sweetness is from thee; Sweet God! for evermore be thou Fountain and fire in me!

—Frederick William Faber.

HOW TO JUDGE

"Judge the people by their actions"—tis a rule you often get— "Judge the actions by their people" is a wiser maxim yet. Have I known you, brother, sister? Have I looked into your heart? Mingled with your thoughts my feelings, taken of your life my part? Through the warp of your convictions sent the shuttle of my thought Till the web became the Credo, for us both, of Should and Ought? Seen in thousand ways your nature, in all act and look and speech? By that large induction only I your law of being reach. Now I hear of this wrong action—what is that to you and me? Sin within you may have done it—fruit not nature to the tree. Foreign graft has come to bearing—mistletoe grown on your bough— If I ever really knew you, then, my friend, I know you now. So I say, "He never did it," or, "He did not so intend"; Or, "Some foreign power o'ercame him"—so I judge the action, friend. Let the mere outside observer note appearance as he can; We, more righteous judgment passing, test each action by its man.

—James Freeman Clarke.

"TO KNOW ALL IS TO FORGIVE ALL"

If I knew you and you knew me, If both of us could clearly see, And with an inner sight divine The meaning of your heart and mine, I'm sure that we would differ less, And clasp our hands in friendliness; Our thoughts would pleasantly agree If I knew you and you knew me.

—Nixon Waterman.

KINDNESS

A little word in kindness spoken, A motion, or a tear, Has often healed the heart that's broken And made a friend sincere.

A word, a look, has crushed to earth Full many a budding flower, Which, had a smile but owned its birth, Would bless life's darkest hour.

Then deem it not an idle thing A pleasant word to speak; The face you wear, the thought you bring, A heart may heal or break.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

IF WE KNEW

If we knew the cares and sorrows Crowded round our neighbor's way, If we knew the little losses, Sorely grievous, day by day, Would we then so often chide him For the lack of thrift and gain, Leaving on his heart a shadow Leaving on our hearts a stain?

If we knew the clouds above us, Held by gentle blessings there, Would we turn away, all trembling, In our blind and weak despair? Would we shrink from little shadows Lying on the dewy grass While 'tis only birds of Eden Just in mercy flying past?

Let us reach within our bosoms For the key to other lives, And with love to erring natures Cherish good that still survives; So that when our disrobed spirits Soar to realms of light again, We may say, "Dear Father, judge us As we judged our fellow men."

Time to me this truth hath taught, 'Tis a truth that's worth revealing: More offend from want of thought Than from want of feeling. If advice we would convey, There's a time we should convey it; If we've but a word to say, There's a time in which to say it.

HONOR ALL MEN

Great Master! teach us how to hope in man: We lift our eyes upon his works and ways, And disappointment chills us as we gaze, Our dream of him so far the truth outran, So far his deeds are ever falling short. And then we fold our graceful hands and say, "The world is vulgar." Didst thou turn away, O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought, Because the humble souls of Galilee Were tuned not to the music of thine own And chimed not to the pulsing undertone Which swelled Thy loving bosom like the sea? Shame thou our coldness, most benignant Friend, When we so daintily do condescend.

—Martha Perry Howe.

BROTHERHOOD

That plenty but reproaches me Which leaves my neighbor bare. Not wholly glad my heart can be While his is bowed with care.

If I go free, and sound, and stout, While his poor fetters clank, Unsated still, I'll still cry out, And plead with Whom I thank.

Almighty, thou who Father be Of him, of me, of all, Draw us together, him and me, That, whichsoever fall,

The other's hand may fail him not— The other's strength decline No task of succor that his lot May claim from son of thine.

I would be fed. I would be clad. I would be housed and dry. But if so be my heart is sad— What benefit have I?

Best he whose shoulders best endure The load that brings relief; And best shall be his joy secure Who shares that joy with grief.

—Edward Sandford Martin.

THE LIFE I SEEK

Not in some cloistered cell Dost thou, Lord, bid me dwell My love to show, But 'mid the busy marts, Where men with burdened hearts Do come and go.

Some tempted soul to cheer When breath of ill is near And foes annoy; The sinning to restrain, To ease the throb of pain— Be such my joy.

Lord, make me quick to see Each task awaiting me, And quick to do; Oh, grant me strength, I pray, With lowly love each day, And purpose true,

To go as Jesus went, Spending and being spent, Myself forgot; Supplying human needs By loving words and deeds— Oh, happy lot!

—Robert M. Offord.

THY BROTHER

When thy heart with joy o'erflowing Sings a thankful prayer, In thy joy, O let thy brother With thee share.

When the harvest sheaves ingathered Fill thy barns with store, To thy God and to thy brother Give the more.

If thy soul with power uplifted Yearns for glorious deed, Give thy strength to serve thy brother In his need.

Hast thou borne a secret sorrow In thy lonely breast? Take to thee thy sorrowing brother For a guest.

Share with him thy bread of blessing, Sorrow's burden share; When thy heart enfolds a brother, God is there.

—Theodore Chickering Williams.

ALL'S WELL

Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse Foretold not half life's good to me: Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force To show how sweet it is to be! Thy witching dream And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power: Thy promise brave— From birth to grave— Life's boon may beggar in an hour.

"Ask and receive," 'tis sweetly said; Yet what to plead for know I not; For wish is wasted, hope o'ersped, And aye to thanks returns my thought. If I would pray, I've naught to say But this, that God may be God still; For him to live Is still to give, And sweeter than my wish, his will.

O wealth of life beyond all bound! Eternity each moment given! What plummet may the Present sound Who promises a future heaven? Or glad or grieved, Oppressed, relieved, In blackest night or brightest day, Still pours the flood Of golden good, And more than heartful fills me aye.

My wealth is common; I possess No petty province, but the whole. What's mine alone is mine far less Than treasure shared by every soul, Talk not of store, Millions or more— Of values which the purse may hold— But this divine! I own the mine Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold.

I have a stake in every star, In every beam that fills the day; All hearts of men my coffers are, My ores arterial tides convey; The fields and skies And sweet replies Of thought to thought are my gold-dust, The oaks and brooks And speaking looks Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust.

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow For him who lives above all years; Who all-immortal makes the Now, And is not ta'en in Time's arrears; His life's a hymn The seraphim Might stop to hear or help to sing, And to his soul The boundless whole Its bounty all doth daily bring.

"All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith; "The wealth I am must then become Richer and richer, breath by breath— Immortal gain, immortal room!" And since all his Mine also is, Life's gift outruns my fancies far, And drowns the dream In larger stream, As morning drinks the morning star.

—David Atwood Wasson.

HOW DOTH DEATH SPEAK OF OUR BELOVED?

How doth death speak of our beloved When it has laid them low, When it has set its hallowing touch On speechless lip and brow?

It clothes their every gift and grace With radiance from the holiest place, With light as from an angel's face,

Recalling with resistless force And tracing to their hidden source Deeds scarcely noticed in their course—

This little loving fond device, That daily act of sacrifice, Of which too late we learned the price.

Opening our weeping eyes to trace Simple unnoticed kindnesses, Forgotten tones of tenderness,

Which evermore to us must be Sacred as hymns in infancy Learnt listening at a mother's knee.

Thus doth death speak of our beloved When it has laid them low. Then let love antedate the work of death, And speak thus now.

* * * * *

How does death speak of our beloved When it has laid them low, When it has set its hallowing touch On speechless lip and brow?

It sweeps their faults with heavy hand As sweeps the sea the trampled sand, Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.

It shows how much the vexing deed Was but a generous nature's weed Or some choice virtue run to seed;

How that small fretting fretfulness Was but love's overanxiousness, Which had not been had love been less;

This failing at which we repined But the dim shade of day declined Which should have made us doubly kind.

It takes each failing on our part And brands it in upon the heart With caustic power and cruel art.

The small neglect that may have pained A giant stature will have gained When it can never be explained;

The little service which had proved How tenderly we watched and loved, And those mute lips to smiles had moved;

The little gift from out our store Which might have cheered some cheerless hour When they with earth's poor needs were poor.

It shows our faults like fires at night; It sweeps their failings out of sight; It clothes their good in heavenly light.

O Christ, our life, foredate the work of death And do this now; Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved; Not death, but Thou!

—Elizabeth Rundle Charles.

God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives That lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted—hold high, wave wide, Its comfort for others to share!

—Muleykeh.

THE NEW ERA

It is coming! it is coming! The day is just a-dawning When man shall be to fellow-man a helper and a brother; When the mansion, with its gilded hall, its tower and arch and awning, Shall be to hovel desolate a kind and foster-mother.

When the men who work for wages shall not toil from morn till even, With no vision of the sunlight, nor flowers, nor birds a-singing; When the men who hire the workers, blest with all the gifts of heaven, Shall the golden rule remember, its glad millennium bringing.

The time is coming when the man who cares not for another Shall be accounted as a stain upon a fair creation; Who lives to fill his coffers full, his better self to smother, As blight and mildew on the fame and glory of a nation.

The hours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling, And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be; And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoiling The fairest and the finest of a grand humanity.

It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper; They are giving of their millions as they never gave before; They are learning the new gospel, man must be his brother's keeper, And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

To a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen sieve, "You've a hole right through your body, and I wonder how you live." But the needle (who was sharp) replied, "I too have wondered That you notice my one hole, when in you there are a hundred!"

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

LOOKING FOR PEARLS

The Master came one evening to the gate Of a fair city; it was growing late, And sending his disciples to buy food, He wandered forth intent on doing good, As was his wont. And in the market-place He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space, Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground, Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck— A dead dog with a halter round his neck, And those who stood by mocked the object there, And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!" Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?" "Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit, "You could not cut even a shoe from it," And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed," A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!" "He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried. And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side. Then Jesus, standing by them in the street, Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet, And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men, "Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And then The people at each other gazed, asking, "Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?" Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath, "This surely is the Man of Nazareth; This must be Jesus, for none else but he Something to praise in a dead dog could see!" And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head, And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

—Alexander Pope.

WHAT MIGHT BE DONE

What might be done if men were wise— What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, Would they unite In love and right, And cease their scorn of one another!

Oppression's heart might be imbued With kindling drops of loving-kindness, And knowledge pour From shore to shore Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, All vice and crime, might die together; And wine and corn To each man born Be free as warmth in summer weather.

The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, Might stand erect In self-respect, And share the teeming world to-morrow.

What might be done? This might be done. And more than this, my suffering brother; More than the tongue E'er said or sung If men were wise and loved each other.

—Charles Mackay.

If I could see A brother languishing in sore distress, And I should turn and leave him comfortless, When I might be A messenger of hope and happiness— How could I ask to have that I denied In my own hour of bitterness supplied?

If I might share A brother's load along the dusty way, And I should turn and walk alone that day, How could I dare— When in the evening watch I kneel to pray— To ask for help to bear my pain and loss, If I had heeded not my brother's cross?

SHARED

I said it in the meadow path, I say it on the mountain-stairs: The best things any mortal hath Are those which every mortal shares.

The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze— The light without us and within— Life with its unlocked treasuries— God's riches, are for all to win.

The grass is softer to my tread For rest it yields unnumbered feet; Sweeter to me the wild-rose red Because she makes the whole world sweet.

Into your heavenly loneliness Ye welcomed me, O solemn peaks! And me in every guest you bless Who reverently your mystery seeks.

And up the radiant peopled way That opens into worlds unknown It will be life's delight to say, "Heaven is not heaven for me alone."

Rich through my brethren's poverty! Such wealth were hideous! I am blest Only in what they share with me, In what I share with all the rest.

—Lucy Larcom.

UNCHARITABLENESS NOT CHRISTIAN

I know not if 'twas wise or well To give all heathens up to hell— Hadrian—Aurelius—Socrates— And others wise and good as these; I know not if it is forbid, But this I know—Christ never did.

May every soul that touches mine— Be it the slightest contact—get therefrom some good, Some little grace, one kindly thought, One inspiration yet unfelt, one bit of courage For the darkening sky, one gleam of faith To brave the thickening ills of life, One glimpse of brighter skies beyond the gathering mists, To make this life worth while, And heaven a surer heritage.

SOCIAL CHRISTIANITY

O for a closer walk with man! Sweet fellowship of soul, Where each is to the other bound, Parts of one living whole.

Our Father, God, help us to see That all in thee are one; O warm our hearts with thy pure love, Strong as your glorious sun.

Pride, envy, selfishness will melt Beneath that kindling fire; Our brother's faults we scarce shall see, But good in all admire.

No bitter cry of misery Shall ever pass unheard; But gentle sympathy spring forth In smile and strengthening word.

And when our brother's voice shall call From lands beyond the sea, Our hearts in glad response will say, "Here, Lord, am I, send me."

O Jesus Christ, thou who wast man, Grant us thy face to see; In thy light shall we understand What human life may be.

Then daily with thy Spirit filled, According to thy word, New power shall flow through us to all, And draw men near our Lord.

Thus will the deep desire be met With which our prayer began; A closer walk with Thee will mean A closer walk with man.

If any little word of mine may make a life the brighter, If any little song of mine may make a heart the lighter, God help me speak the little word, and take my bit of singing, And drop it in some lonely vale to set the echoes ringing. If any little love of mine may make a life the sweeter, If any little care of mine make other life completer, If any lift of mine may ease the burden of another, God give me love and care and strength to help my toiling brother.

CHARITY NOT JUSTICE

Outwearied with the littleness and spite, The falsehood and the treachery of men, I cried, "Give me but justice!" thinking then I meekly craved a common boon which might Most easily be granted; soon the light Of deeper truth grew on my wondering ken, (Escaping baneful damps of stagnant fen), And then I saw that in my pride bedight I claimed from erring man the gift of Heaven— God's own great vested right; and I grew calm, With folded hands, like stone, to patience given, And pitying, of pure love distilling balm; And now I wait in quiet trust to be All known to God—and ask of men sweet charity.

—Elizabeth Oakes Smith.

GOD SAVE THE PEOPLE

When wilt thou save the people, O God of mercy, when? Not kings alone, but nations? Not thrones and crowns, but men? Flowers of thy heart, O God, are they: Let them not pass, like weeds, away— Their heritage a sunless day. God save the people!

Shall crime bring crime forever, Strength aiding still the strong? Is it thy will, O Father, That man shall toil for wrong? "No," say thy mountains, "No," thy skies; Man's clouded sun shall brightly rise, And songs ascend instead of sighs. God save the people!

When wilt thou save the people? O God of mercy, when? The people, Lord, the people, Not thrones and crowns, but men? God save the people; thine they are, Thy children, as thine angels fair; From vice, oppression, and despair, God save the people!

—Ebenezer Elliott.

HYMN OF THE CITY

Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood And sunny vale the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!—here, amidst the crowd Through the great city rolled With everlasting murmurs deep and loud— Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

The golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes; For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores.

Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound— Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng— Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.

And when the hour of rest Comes like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast— The quiet of that moment too is Thine It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

—William Cullen Bryant.

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Believe not each accusing tongue, As most weak people do; But still believe that story wrong Which ought not to be true.

—Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

CHRIST IN THE CITY

Where cross the crowded ways of life Where sound the cries of race and clan, Above the noise of selfish strife, We hear thy voice, O Son of man.

In haunts of wretchedness and need, On shadowed thresholds dark with fears, From paths where hide the lures of greed We catch the vision of thy tears.

From tender childhood's helplessness, From woman's grief, man's burdened toil, From famished souls, from sorrow's stress, Thy heart has never known recoil.

The cup of water given for Thee Still holds the freshness of thy grace; Yet long these multitudes to see The sweet compassion of thy face.

O Master, from the mountain side Make haste to heal these hearts of pain, Among these restless throngs abide, O tread the city's streets again,

Till sons of men shall learn thy love And follow where thy feet have trod; Till glorious from thy heaven above Shall come the city of our God.

—Frank Mason North.

Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; While he who walks in love may wander far, But God will bring him where the blessed are.

—Henry van Dyke.

Persuasion, friend, comes not by toil or art, Hard study never made the matter clearer; 'Tis the live fountain in the preacher's heart Sends forth the streams that melt the ravished hearer.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

SPEAK OUT

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him, ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow. Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend—till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long. Why should one who thrills your heart Lack the joy you may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you By its humble, pleading tone, Join it. Do not let the seeker Bow before his God alone. Why should not thy brother share The strength of "two or three" in prayer?

If your work is made more easy By a friendly, helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly, Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seeds of kindness All enriching as you go— Leave them. Trust the Harvest-Giver; He will make each seed to grow. So, until the happy end, Your life shall never lack a friend.

INFLUENCE

The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean Will leave a track behind forevermore; The lightest wave of influence, once in motion, Extends and widens to the eternal shore. We should be wary, then, who go before A myriad yet to be, and we should take Our bearings carefully where breakers roar And fearful tempests gather: one mistake May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

TELL HIM SO

If you have a word of cheer That may light the pathway drear, Of a brother pilgrim here, Let him know. Show him you appreciate What he does, and do not wait Till the heavy hand of fate Lays him low. If your heart contains a thought That will brighter make his lot, Then, in mercy, hide it not; Tell him so.

Bide not till the end of all Carries him beyond recall When beside his sable pall, To avow Your affection and acclaim To do honor to his name And to place the wreath of fame On his brow. Rather speak to him to-day; For the things you have to say May assist him on his way: Tell him now.

Life is hard enough, at best: But the love that is expressed Makes it seem a pathway blest To our feet; And the troubles that we share Seem the easier to bear, Smile upon your neighbor's care, As you greet. Rough and stony are our ways, Dark and dreary are our days; But another's love and praise Make them sweet.

Wait not till your friend is dead Ere your compliments are said; For the spirit that has fled, If it know, Does not need to speed it on Our poor praise; where it has gone Love's eternal, golden dawn Is aglow. But unto our brother here That poor praise is very dear; If you've any word of cheer Tell him so.

—J. A. Egerton.

So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE MAN WITH A GRUDGE

There once was a man who bore a grudge. Stoutly he bore it many a year. "Beware!" said the parson. He answered, "Fudge! Well it becomes me, never fear.

"Men for this world, and saints for heaven; Too much of meekness shows a fool; My loaf shall rise with a livelier leaven; 'Give as you get,' is a good old rule."

The longer he bore it, the more it grew, Grew his grudge, as he trudged along; Till in sight of a pearly gate he drew, And he heard within it a wondrous song.

The shining porter said, "Walk in." He sought to do so; the gate was strait: Hard he struggled his way to win, The way was narrow, the grudge was great.

He turned in haste to lay it down; He strove to tear it away—to cut— But it had fast to his heart strings grown, "O wait," he cried; but the door was shut.

Through windows bright and clear he saw The blessed going with their Lord to sup. But Satan clapped on his grudge a claw; Hell opened her mouth and swallowed him up.

—Sara Hammond Palfrey.

Man judges from a partial view, None ever yet his brother knew; The Eternal Eye that sees the whole May better read the darkened soul, And find, to outward sense denied, The flower upon its inward side.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

O brothers! are ye asking how The hills of happiness to find? Then know they lie beyond the vow— "God helping me, I will be kind."

—Nixon Waterman.

A BLESSING

Not to the man of dollars, Not to the man of deeds, Not unto craft and cunning, Not unto human creeds; Not to the one whose passion Is for the world's renown, Not in the form of fashion Cometh a blessing down.

But to the one whose spirit Yearns for the great and good; Unto the one whose storehouse Yieldeth the hungry food; Unto the one who labors Fearless of foe or frown; Unto the kindly-hearted, Cometh a blessing down.

—Mary Frances Tucker.

WEAPONS

Both swords and guns are strong, no doubt, And so are tongue and pen, And so are sheaves of good bank notes, To sway the souls of men. But guns and swords and piles of gold, Though mighty in their sphere, Are sometimes feebler than a smile, And poorer than a tear.

—Charles Mackay.

Enough to know that, through the winter's frost And summer's heat, no seed of truth is lost, And every duty pays at last its cost.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

A kindly act is a kernel sown That will grow to a goodly tree, Shedding its fruit when time is flown Down the gulf of Eternity.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

The kindly word unspoken is a sin— A sin that wraps itself in purest guise, And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, That, not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.



CONSECRATION

SUBMISSION, DEVOTION, PURITY

THE CHARIOTEER

O God, take the reins of my life! I have driven it blindly, to left and to right, In mock of the rock, in the chasm's despite, Where the brambles were rife, In the blaze of the sun and the deadliest black of the night. O God, take the reins of my life!

For I am so weary and weak. My hands are a-quiver and so is my heart, And my eyes are too tired for the tear-drops to start, And the worn horses reek With the anguishing pull and the hot, heavy harness's smart, While I am all weary and weak.

But Thou wilt be peace, wilt be power. Thy hand on the reins and thine eye on the way Shall be wisdom to guide and controlling to stay, And my life in that hour Shall be led into leading, and rest when it comes to obey; For thou wilt be peace and all power.

Now, Lord, without tarrying, now! While eyes can look up and while reason remains, And my hand yet has strength to surrender the reins, Ere death stamp my brow And pour coldness and stillness through all the mad course of my veins— Come, Lord, without tarrying, now!

I yield Thee my place, which is thine. Appoint me to lie on the chariot floor; Yea, appoint me to lie at thy feet, and no more, While the glad axles shine, And the happy wheels run on their course to the heavenly door,— Now thou hast my place, which is thine.

—Amos R. Wells.

WHOLLY THE LORD'S

My whole though broken heart, O Lord, From henceforth shall be thine; And here I do my vow record— This hand, these words are mine: All that I have, without reserve, I offer here to thee: Thy will and honor all shall serve That thou bestow'st on me.

All that exceptions save I lose; All that I lose I save; The treasures of thy love I choose, And Thou art all I crave. My God, thou hast my heart and hand; I all to thee resign; I'll ever to this covenant stand, Though flesh hereat repine.

I know that Thou wast willing first, And then drew my consent; Having thus loved me at the worst Thou wilt not now repent. Now I have quit all self-pretense, Take charge of what's thine own: My life, my health, and my defense, Now lie on thee alone.

—Richard Baxter.

THE LAST WISH

To do or not to do; to have Or not to have, I leave to thee; To be or not to be I leave; Thy only will be done in me. All my requests are lost in one: Father, thy only will be done.

Suffice that, for the season past, Myself in things divine I sought, For comforts cried with eager haste, And murmured that I found them not. I leave it now to Thee alone: Father, thy only will be done.

Thy gifts I clamor for no more, Or selfishly thy grace require An evil heart to varnish o'er; Jesus, the Giver, I desire, After the flesh no longer known: Father, thy only will be done.

Welcome alike the crown or cross; Trouble I cannot ask, nor peace, Nor toil, nor rest, nor gain, nor loss, Nor joy, nor grief, nor pain, nor ease, Nor life, nor death, but ever groan, Father, thy only will be done.

—Charles Wesley.

MORNING HYMN

O God! I thank thee for each sight Of beauty that thy hand doth give; For sunny skies and air and light; O God, I thank thee that I live!

That life I consecrate to Thee; And ever as the day is born, On wings of joy my soul would flee And thank thee for another morn;

Another day in which to cast Some silent deed of love abroad, That, greatening as it journeys past, May do some earnest work for God;

Another day to do and dare; To tax anew my growing strength; To arm my soul with faith and prayer, And so reach heaven and Thee at length.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

"INTO THY HANDS"

Into Thy guiding hands; Along a way thy love and care forefend Gladly I fare, or rough or smooth may bend The longest road that leads at life's far end Into thy hands.

Into thy chastening hands: If e'er I yield to weakness or to sin, Blind to the guerdon Thou dost bid me win, Bring Thou me back, by Love's sweet discipline, Into thy hands.

Into Thy healing hands; No hurt of soul or body long enthralls, The bruised heart that for thy succor calls When, far from doubting as from fear, it falls Into thy hands.

Into thy saving hands: Despite assoil, infirmity, mistake, My life a perfect whole thy power can make, If Thou my shards of broken purpose take Into thy hands.

Into Thy keeping hands; As safe as Heaven kept the guarded Grail— So safe, so pure, so compassed as with mail— The soul committed, e'en through Death's dark vale, Into thy hands.

Into thy loving hands; Who made my heart to love made Thee my guest; Who made the world to tire made thee my rest; My joyful heart I give, at thy behest, Into thy hands.

—Louise Manning Hodgkins.

HERE AM I

My will would like a life of ease, And power to do, and time to rest, And health and strength my will would please, But, Lord, I know thy will is best.

If I have strength to do thy will That should be power enough for me, Whether to work or to sit still The appointment of the day may be.

And if by sickness I may grow More patient, holy and resigned, Strong health I need not wish to know, And greater ease I cannot find.

And rest—I need not seek it here; For perfect rest remaineth still; When in thy presence we appear Rest shall be given by thy will.

Lord I have given my life to thee, And every day and hour is thine; What thou appointest let them be: Thy will is better, Lord, than mine.

—Anna B. Warner.

THE SACRIFICE OF THE WILL

Laid on thine altar, O my Lord Divine, Accept my will this day, for Jesus' sake; I have no jewels to adorn thy shrine— Nor any world-proud sacrifice to make; But here I bring within my trembling hand, This will of mine—a thing that seemeth small, And Thou alone, O God, canst understand How, when I yield Thee this, I yield mine all. Hidden therein, thy searching gaze can see Struggles of passion—visions of delight— All that I love, and am, and fain would be, Deep loves, fond hopes, and longings infinite. It hath been wet with tears and dimmed with sighs, Clinched in my grasp, till beauty hath it none— Now, from thy footstool where it vanquished lies, The prayer ascendeth, "May thy will be done." Take it, O Father, ere my courage fail, And merge it so in thine own Will, that e'en If, in some desperate hour, my cries prevail, And thou give back my will, it may have been So changed, so purified, so fair have grown, So one with thee, so filled with peace divine, I may not see nor know it as my own, But, gaining back my will, may find it thine.

Manlike is it to fall into sin, Fiendlike is it to dwell therein, Christlike is it for sin to grieve, Godlike is it all sin to leave.

—Friedrich von Logau.

O GOD OF TRUTH

O God of Truth, whose living word Upholds whate'er hath breath, Look down on thy creation, Lord, Enslaved by sin and death.

Set up thy standard, Lord, that they Who claim a heavenly birth May march with thee to smite the lies That vex thy ransomed earth.

Ah! would we join that blest array, And follow in the might Of Him, the Faithful and the True, In raiment clean and white.

We fight for truth, we fight for God— Poor slaves of lies and sin! He who would fight for thee on earth Must first be true within.

Thou God of Truth for whom we long— Thou who wilt hear our prayer— Do thine own battle in our hearts; And slay the falsehood there.

Still smite! still burn! till naught is left But God's own truth and love; Then, Lord, as morning dew come down, Rest on us from above.

Yea, come! then, tried as in the fire, From every lie set free, Thy perfect truth shall dwell in us, And we shall live in Thee.

—Thomas Hughes.

GOD ONLY

Lord, in the strength of grace, With a glad heart and free, Myself, my residue of days, I consecrate to Thee.

Thy ransomed servant, I Restore to thee thine own; And from this moment live or die To serve my God alone.

—Charles Wesley.

In full and glad surrender we give ourselves to thee, Thine utterly and only and evermore to be! O Son of God, who lovest us, we will be thine alone, And all we are and all we have shall henceforth be thine own.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

GOD IS EVERYWHERE

A little bird I am, Shut from the fields of air; And in my cage I sit and sing To him who placed me there; Well pleased a prisoner to be, Because, my God, it pleaseth thee.

Naught have I else to do; I sing the whole day long; And He whom most I love to please Doth listen to my song; He caught and bound my wandering wing, But still he bends to hear me sing.

My cage confines me round, Abroad I cannot fly; But though my wings are closely bound My heart's at liberty. My prison walls cannot control The flight, the freedom of my soul.

Oh, it is grand to soar These bolts and bars above To Him whose purpose I adore, Whose providence I love! And in thy mighty will to find The joy, the freedom of the mind.

—Madame Guyon.

A CONSECRATED LIFE

Take my life and let it be Consecrated, Lord, to thee. Take my moments and my days; Let them flow in ceaseless praise.

Take my hands, and let them move At the impulse of thy love. Take my feet and let them be Swift and "beautiful" for Thee.

Take my voice, and let me sing Always, only, for my King. Take my lips, and let them be Filled with messages from Thee.

Take my silver and my gold; Not a mite would I withhold. Take my intellect, and use Every power as Thou shalt choose.

Take my will and make it Thine; It shall be no longer mine. Take my heart; it is thine own; It shall be thy royal throne.

Take my love; my Lord, I pour At thy feet its treasure-store. Take myself, and I will be Ever, only, ALL for Thee.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

UNION WITH GOD

Strong are the walls around me, That hold me all the day; But they who thus have bound me Cannot keep God away: My very dungeon walls are dear, Because the God I love is here.

They know, who thus oppress me, 'Tis hard to be alone; But know not One can bless me Who comes through bars and stone. He makes my dungeon's darkness bright And fills my bosom with delight.

Thy love, O God! restores me From sighs and tears to praise; And deep my soul adores thee Nor thinks of time or place: I ask no more, in good or ill, But union with thy holy will.

'Tis that which makes my treasure, 'Tis that which brings my gain; Converting woe to pleasure. And reaping joy from pain. Oh, 'tis enough, whate'er befall, To know that God is All in All.

—Madame Guyon.

DEDICATED

O Lord, thy heavenly grace impart, And fix my frail, inconstant heart; Henceforth my chief desire shall be To dedicate myself to thee.

Whate'er pursuits my time employ, One thought shall fill my soul with joy: That silent, secret thought shall be That all my hopes are fixed on thee.

Thy glorious eye pervadeth space; Thy presence, Lord, fills every place; And wheresoe'er my lot may be Still shall my spirit cleave to thee.

Renouncing every worldly thing, And safe beneath thy spreading wing, My sweetest thought henceforth shall be That all I want I find in thee.

—Jean F. Oberlin.

LEAVING ALL

Jesus, I my cross have taken, All to leave and follow thee; Naked, poor, despised, forsaken, Thou, from hence, my all shalt be: Perish every fond ambition, All I've sought, and hoped, and known; Yet how rich is my condition, God and heaven are still my own!

Let the world despise and leave me, They have left my Saviour too; Human hearts and looks deceive me; Thou art not, like man, untrue; And while thou shalt smile upon me, God of wisdom, love, and might, Foes may hate, and friends may shun me; Show thy face, and all is bright.

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure! Come, disaster, scorn, and pain! In Thy service, pain is pleasure; With thy favor, loss is gain. I have called thee, "Abba, Father"; I have stayed my heart on thee: Storms may howl, and clouds may gather, All must work for good to me.

Man may trouble and distress me, 'Twill but drive me to Thy breast; Life with trials hard may press me, Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. O 'tis not in grief to harm me, While thy love is left to me; O 'twere not in joy to charm me, Were that joy unmixed with thee.

Know, my soul, thy full salvation; Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care; Joy to find in every station Something still to do or bear. Think what Spirit dwells within thee; What a Father's smile is thine; What a Saviour died to win thee: Child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?

Haste thee on from grace to glory, Armed by faith, and winged by prayer; Heaven's eternal day's before thee, God's own hand shall guide thee there. Soon shall close thy earthly mission, Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days, Hope shall change to glad fruition, Faith to sight, and prayer to praise.

—Henry F. Lyte.

CHOOSE THOU

Thy way, not mine, O Lord! However dark it be; Lead me by Thine own hand, Choose out the path for me.

Smooth let it be, or rough, It will be still the best; Winding or straight it matters not, It leads me to Thy rest.

I dare not choose my lot, I would not if I might; Choose Thou for me, O God! So shall I walk aright.

The kingdom that I seek Is Thine; so let the way That leads to it be thine Else I must surely stray.

Take Thou my cup, and it With joy or sorrow fill; As best to Thee may seem; Choose Thou my good or ill.

Choose Thou for me my friends My sickness or my health; Choose thou my cares for me, My poverty or wealth.

Not mine, not mine the choice In things or great or small; Be Thou my guide, my strength, My wisdom and my all.

—Horatius Bonar.

ONLY TO-DAY

Only to-day is mine, And that I owe to Thee; Help me to make it thine; As pure as it may be; Let it see something done, Let it see something won, Then at the setting sun I'll give it back to thee.

What if I cannot tell The cares the day may bring? I know that I shall dwell Beneath Thy sheltering wing; And there the load is light; And there the dark is bright, And weakness turns to might, And so I trust and sing.

What shall I ask to-day? Naught but Thine own sweet will; The windings of the way Lead to thy holy hill; And whether here or there Why should I fear or care? Thy heavens are everywhere, And they are o'er me still.

Give me Thyself to-day, I dare not walk alone; Speak to me by the way, And "all things are my own"; The treasures of thy grace, The secret hiding place, The vision of thy face, The shadow of thy throne!

—Henry Burton.

THE OFFERING

No more my own, Lord Jesus, Bought with thy precious blood, I give thee but thine own, Lord, That long thy love withstood.

I give the life thou gavest, My present, future, past; My joys, my fears, my sorrows, My first hope and my last.

I give thee up my weakness That oft distrust hath bred, That thy indwelling power May thus be perfected.

I give the love the sweetest Thy goodness grants to me; Take it, and make it meet, Lord, For offering to thee.

Smile, and the very shadows In thy blest light shall shine; Take thou my heart, Lord Jesus, For thou hast made it thine.

Thou knowest my soul's ambition, For thou hast changed its aim (The world's reproach I fear not) To share a Saviour's shame.

Outside the camp to suffer; Within the veil to meet, And hear Thy softest whisper From out the mercy-seat.

Thou bear'st me in thy bosom, Amidst thy jewels worn, Upon thy hands deep graven By arms of love upborne.

Rescued from sin's destruction, Ransomed from death and hell; Complete in Thee, Lord Jesus: Thou hast done all things well.

Oh, deathless love that bought me! Oh, price beyond my ken! Oh, Life that hides my own life E'en from my fellow-men!

Now fashion, form and fill me With light and love divine; So, one with Thee, Lord Jesus, I'm thine—forever thine!

I IN THEE AND THOU IN ME

I am but clay in thy hands, but Thou art the all-loving artist; Passive I lie in thy sight, yet in my self-hood I strive So to embody the life and the love thou ever impartest, That in my sphere of the finite I may be truly alive.

Knowing Thou needest this form, as I thy divine inspiration, Knowing thou shapest the clay with a vision and purpose divine, So would I answer each touch of thy hand in its loving creation, That in my conscious life thy power and beauty may shine.

Reflecting the noble intent Thou hast in forming thy creatures; Waking from sense into life of the soul, and the image of thee; Working with thee in thy work to model humanity's features Into the likeness of God, myself from myself I would free.

One with all human existence, no one above or below me; Lit by Thy wisdom and love, as roses are steeped in the morn; Growing from clay to a statue, from statue to flesh, till thou know me Wrought into manhood celestial, and in thine image reborn.

So in thy love will I trust, bringing me sooner or later Past the dark screen that divides these shows of the finite from Thee. Thine, thine only, this warm dear life, O loving Creator! Thine the invisible future, born of the present, must be.

—Christopher Pearse Cranch.

ON THEE MY HEART IS RESTING

On Thee my heart is resting: Ah! this is rest indeed! What else, Almighty Saviour, Can a poor sinner need? Thy light is all my wisdom, Thy love is all my stay; Our Father's home in glory Draws nearer every day.

Great is my guilt, but greater The mercy Thou dost give; Thyself, a spotless offering, Hast died that I should live. With Thee my soul unfettered Has risen from the dust; Thy blood is all my treasure; Thy word is all my trust.

Through me, thou gentle Master, Thy purposes fulfill: I yield myself forever To thy most holy will. What though I be but weakness My strength is not in me; The poorest of thy people Has all things, having Thee.

When clouds are darkest round me, Thou, Lord, art then most near, My drooping faith to quicken, My weary soul to cheer. Safe nestling in thy bosom, I gaze upon thy face. In vain my foes would drive me From Thee, my hiding-place.

'Tis Thou hast made me happy; 'Tis thou hast set me free. To whom shall I give glory Forever but to Thee! Of earthly love and blessing Should every stream run dry, Thy grace shall still be with me— Thy grace to live and die!

—Theodore Monod.

WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE?

I love, and have some cause to love, the earth; She is my Maker's creature, therefore good; She is my mother, for she gave me birth; She is my tender nurse, she gives me food; But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee? Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast Are subjects far too low for my desire; The brightest beams of glory are, at most, But dying sparkles of thy living fire; The proudest flames that earth can kindle be But nightly glowworms if compared to Thee.

Without thy presence, wealth are bags of cares; Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet, sadness; Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasure's but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness: Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have their being when compared with Thee.

In having all things, and not Thee, what have I? Not having Thee, what have my labors got? Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I? And having Thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.

—Francis Quarles.

Only for Jesus! Lord, keep it ever Sealed on the heart, and engraved on the life; Pulse of all gladness, and nerve of endeavor, Secret of rest and the strength of our strife.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

SINCE FIRST THY WORD AWAKED MY HEART

Since first thy word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn my eyes, Thou art All light and love before me. Nought else I feel or hear or see, All bonds of earth I sever, Thee, O God, and only thee, I live for now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropped away When light shone o'er his prison, My spirit, touched by mercy's ray, Hath from her chains arisen. And shall a soul Thou bid'st be free Return to bondage? Never! Thee, O God, and only thee, I live for now and ever.

—Thomas Moore.

WE GIVE ALL

And now we only ask to serve, We do not ask to rest; We would give all without reserve, Our life, our love, our best.

We only ask to see His face, It is enough for us; We only ask the lowest place, So he may smile on us.

—Mary E. Townsend.

THE TWO WORLDS

Unveil, O Lord, and on us shine In glory and in grace; The gaudy world grows pale before The beauty of thy face.

Till Thou art seen, it seems to be A sort of fairy ground, Where suns unsetting light the sky, And flowers and fruits abound,

But when Thy keener, purer beam Is poured upon our sight, It loses all its power to charm, And what was day is night.

Its noblest toils are then the scourge Which made Thy blood to flow; Its joys are but the treacherous thorns Which circled round thy brow.

And thus, when we renounce for Thee Its restless aims and fears, The tender memories of the past, The hopes of coming years,

Poor is our sacrifice, whose eyes Are lighted from above; We offer what we cannot keep, What we have ceased to love.

—John Henry Newman.

SELF-SURRENDER

Saviour, who died for me, I give myself to thee; Thy love, so full, so free, Claims all my powers. Be this my purpose high, To serve Thee till I die, Whether my path shall lie 'Mid thorns or flowers.

But, Lord, the flesh is weak; Thy gracious aid I seek, For thou the word must speak That makes me strong. Then let me hear thy voice, Thou art my only choice; O bid my heart rejoice; Be thou my song.

May it be joy to me To follow only Thee; Thy faithful servant be, Thine to the end. For Thee I'll do and dare, For thee the cross I'll bear, To thee direct my prayer, On thee depend.

Saviour, with me abide; Be ever near my side; Support, defend, and guide. I look to thee. I lay my hand in thine, And fleeting joys resign, If I may call thee mine Eternally.

—Mary J. Mason.

For all the sins that cling to thee Let wide the gates of pardon be; But hope not thou shalt smuggle through The little sin thou clingest to.

—F. Langbridge.

GOD ALONE LOVED

Do I not love thee, Lord most high, In answer to thy love for me! I seek no other liberty But that of being bound to Thee.

May memory no thought suggest But shall to thy pure glory tend; May understanding find no rest Except in Thee, its only end.

My God, I here protest to Thee No other will I have than thine; Whatever thou hast given me I here again to Thee resign.

All mine is thine, say but the word; Whate'er Thou willest—be it done; I know thy love, all-gracious Lord— I know it seeks my good alone.

Apart from Thee all things are naught; Then grant, O my supremest bliss! Grant me to love Thee as I ought; Thou givest all in giving this.

—Ignatius Loyola, tr. by Edward Caswall.

THE ACQUIESCENCE OF PURE LOVE

To me 'tis equal whether love ordain My life or death, appoint me pain or ease My soul perceives no real ill in pain, In ease or health no real good she sees.

One good she covets, and that good alone, To choose thy will, from selfish bias free; And to prefer a cottage to a throne, And grief to comfort, if it pleases Thee.

That we should bear the cross is Thy command, Die to the world and live to self no more; Suffer unmoved beneath the rudest hand When shipwrecked pleased as when upon the shore.

—Madame Guyon, tr. by William Cowper.

I preached as never sure to preach again, And as a dying man to dying men.

—Richard Baxter.

PRESSING TOWARD THE MARK

Thee will I love, my strength and tower, Thee will I love, my joy and crown, Thee will I love with all my power, In all my works, and Thee alone. Thee will I love, till that pure fire Fills my whole soul with strong desire.

Give to mine eyes refreshing tears; Give to my heart chaste, hallowed fires; Give to my soul, with filial fears The love that all heaven's host inspires; That all my powers, with all their might, In thy sole glory may unite.

Thee will I love, my joy, my crown, Thee will I love, my Lord, my God; Thee will I love beneath thy frown Or smile, thy scepter or thy rod; What though my head and flesh decay? Thee shall I love in endless day.

—Johann A. Scheffler, tr. by John Wesley.

DWELL DEEP

Dwell deep! The little things that chafe and fret, O waste not golden hours to give them heed! The slight, the thoughtless wrong, do thou forget, Be self-forgot in serving others' need. Thou faith in God through love for man shalt keep. Dwell deep, my soul, dwell deep.

Dwell deep! Forego the pleasure if it bring Neglect of duty; consecrate each thought; Believe thou in the good of everything, And trust that all unto the wisest end is wrought. Bring thou this comfort unto all who weep: Dwell deep, my soul, dwell deep.

—James Buckham.

Out from thyself, thyself depart; God then shall fill thine empty heart; Cast from thy soul life's selfish dream— In flows the Godhead's living stream.

—Scheffler, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.



PEACE

REST, CALM, STILLNESS

THE PEACE OF GOD

When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean, And billows wild contend with angry roar, 'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion, That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

Far, far beneath the noise of tempest dieth, And silver waves chime ever peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth, Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the soul that knows thy love, O Purest, There is a temple peaceful evermore. And all the babble of life's angry voices Dies hushed in stillness at its sacred door.

Far, far away the noise of passion dieth, And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth, Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in thee.

O rest of rest! O peace serene, eternal! Thou ever livest, and thou changest never; And in the secret of thy presence dwelleth Fullness of joy, forever and forever.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Life's burdens fall, its discords cease, I lapse into the glad release Of Nature's own exceeding peace.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

BE STILL

Let nothing make thee sad or fretful, Or too regretful; Be still. What God hath ordered must be right; Then find in it thy own delight, My will!

Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow About to-morrow, My heart? God watcheth all with care most true; Doubt not that he will give thee too Thy part.

—Paul Fleming.

SIT STILL

(Ruth 3. 18.)

Sit still, my child. 'Tis no great thing I ask, No glorious deed, no mighty task; But just to sit and patiently abide. Wait in my presence, in my word confide,

"But oh! dear Lord, I long the sword to wield, Forward to go, and in the battle field To fight for thee, thine enemies o'erthrow, And in thy strength to vanquish every foe.

"The harvest-fields spread out before me lie, The reapers toward me look, and vainly cry— 'The field is white, the laborers are few; Our Lord's command is also sent to you,'"

My child, it is a sweet and blessed thing To rest beneath the shadow of my wing; To feel thy doings and thy words are naught, To trust to me each restless, longing thought.

"Dear Lord, help me this lesson sweet to learn, To sit at thy pierced feet and only yearn To love thee better, Lord, and feel that still Waiting is working, if it be thy will."

THE QUIET MIND

I have a treasure which I prize; The like I cannot find; There's nothing like it in the earth: It is a quiet mind.

But 'tis not that I'm stupefied, Or senseless, dull, or blind: 'Tis God's own peace within my soul Which forms my quiet mind.

I found this treasure at the Cross. 'Tis there to every kind Of heavy-laden, weary souls Christ gives a quiet mind.

My Saviour's death and risen life To give this were designed; And that's the root and that's the branch, Of this my quiet mind.

The love of God within my heart My heart to his doth bind; This is the mind of heaven on earth; This is my quiet mind.

I've many a cross to take up now, And many left behind; But present trials move me not, Nor shake my quiet mind.

And what may be to-morrow's cross I never seek to find; My Saviour says, Leave that to Me, And keep a quiet mind.

And well I know the Lord hath said, To make my heart resigned, That mercy still shall follow such As have this quiet mind.

I meet with pride of wit and wealth, And scorn and looks unkind, It matters naught: I envy not, For I've a quiet mind.

I'm waiting now to see the Lord, Who's been to me so kind: I want to thank him face to face For this my quiet mind.

MY HEART IS RESTING

My heart is resting, O my God; I will give thanks and sing: My heart is at the secret source Of every precious thing.

Now the frail vessel Thou hast made No hand but thine shall fill— The waters of the earth have failed, And I am thirsty still.

I thirst for springs of heavenly life, And here all day they rise; I seek the treasure of Thy love, And close at hand it lies.

And a "new song" is in my mouth, To long-loved music set— Glory to Thee for all the grace I have not tasted yet.

I have a heritage of joy That yet I must not see; The hand that bled to make it mine Is keeping it for me.

There is a certainty of love That sets my heart at rest; A calm assurance for to-day That to be poor is best!

A prayer reposing on His truth, Who hath made all things mine; That draws my captive will to him, And makes it one with thine.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

KEPT IN PERFECT PEACE

Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin? The voice of Jesus whispers Peace within.

Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed? To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.

Peace, perfect peace, with sorrow surging round? On Jesus' bosom naught but rest is found.

Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away? In Jesus' keeping we are safe, and they.

Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown? Jesus we know, and he is on the throne.

Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours? Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers.

It is enough: earth's struggles now do cease, And Jesus calls us to heaven's perfect peace.

—Edward Henry Bickersteth.

PERFECT PEACE

Like a river glorious is God's perfect peace; Over all victorious in its bright increase; Perfect, yet it floweth fuller every day, Perfect, yet it groweth deeper all the way.

Hidden in the hollow of His blessed hand, Never foe can follow, never traitor stand; Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care, Not a blast of hurry touch the spirit there.

Every joy or trial falleth from above, Traced upon our dial by the Sun of Love, We may trust him fully, all for us to do; They who trust him wholly find him wholly true.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

ABIDING

In heavenly love abiding, No change my heart shall fear And safe is such confiding, For nothing changes here. The storm may roar without me, My heart may low be laid, But God is round about me, And can I be dismayed?

Whenever he may guide me, No want shall turn me back; My Shepherd is beside me, And nothing can I lack. His wisdom ever waketh, His sight is never dim, He knows the way he taketh, And I will walk with him.

Green pastures are before me, Which yet I have not seen; Bright skies will soon be o'er me Where darkest clouds have been. My hope I cannot measure, My path to life is free, My Saviour has my treasure, And he will walk with me.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

CALM

I stand upon the Mount of God With sunlight in my soul; I hear the storms in vales beneath, I hear the thunders roll.

But I am calm with thee, my God, Beneath these glorious skies; And to the height on which I stand, No storms, nor clouds, can rise.

O, THIS is life! O, this is joy! My God, to find thee so; Thy face to see, thy voice to hear, And all thy love to know.

—Horatius Bonar.

DIVINE PEACE

Peace upon peace, like wave upon wave, This the portion that I crave; The peace of God which passeth thought, The peace of Christ which changeth not.

Peace like the river's gentle flow, Peace like the morning's silent glow, From day to day, in love supplied, An endless and unebbing tide.

Peace flowing on without decrease, From him who is our joy and peace, Who, by his reconciling blood, Hath made the sinner's peace with God.

Peace through the night and through the day, Peace through the windings of our way; In pain, and toil, and weariness, A deep and everlasting peace.

O King of peace, this peace bestow Upon a stranger here below; O God of peace, thy peace impart, To every sad and troubled heart.

Peace from the Father and the Son, Peace from the Spirit, all his own; Peace that shall never more be lost, Of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

—Horatius Bonar.

A QUIET HEART

Quiet, Lord, my froward heart: Make me teachable and mild; Upright, simple, free from art; Make me as a weaned child, From distrust and envy free, Pleased with all that pleaseth thee.

What thou shalt to-day provide Let me as a child receive; What to-morrow may betide Calmly to thy wisdom leave. 'Tis enough that thou wilt care: Why should I the burthen bear?

As a little child relies On a care beyond his own; Knows he's neither strong nor wise, Fears to stir a step alone; Let me thus with thee abide, As my Father, Guard and Guide.

—John Newton.

REST WHERE YOU ARE

When, spurred by tasks unceasing or undone, You would seek rest afar, And can not, though repose be rightly won— Rest where you are.

Neglect the needless; sanctify the rest; Move without stress or jar; With quiet of a spirit self-possessed Rest where you are.

Not in event, restriction, or release, Not in scenes near or far, But in ourselves are restlessness or peace, Rest where you are.

Where lives the soul lives God; his day, his world, No phantom mists need mar; His starry nights are tents of peace unfurled: Rest where you are.

BE ALL AT REST

Be all at rest, my soul toward God; from him comes my salvation. Psa. 62. 1.

"Be all at rest, my soul." Oh! blessed secret Of the true life that glorifies thy Lord: Not always doth the busiest soul best serve him, But he who resteth on his faithful word.

"Be all at rest."—"let not your heart be rippled," For tiny wavelets mar the image fair Which the still pool reflects of heaven's glory— And thus the Image he would have you bear.

"Be all at rest,"—for rest is highest service; To the still heart God doth his secrets tell: Thus shall thou learn to wait, and watch, and labor, Strengthened to bear, since Christ in thee doth dwell.

For what is service but the life of Jesus Lived through a vessel of earth's fragile clay; Loving and giving; poured forth for others; "A living sacrifice" from day to day?

And what shall meet the deep unrest around thee But the calm peace of God that filled his breast? For still a living voice must call the weary To him who said, "Come unto me and rest."

Therefore "be all at rest, my soul," toward him, If thou a revelation of the Lord would'st be; For in the quiet confidence that never doubts him, Others his truth and faithfulness shall see.

"Be all at rest," for rest alone becometh The soul that casts on him its every care; "Be all at rest"—so shall thy life proclaim him A God who worketh and who heareth prayer.

"Be all at rest"—so shalt thou be an answer To those who question, "Who is God, and where?" For God is rest, and where he dwells is stillness, And they who dwell in him that rest shall share.