—Freda Hanbury Allen.

REST

Sweet is the pleasure Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure One with true toil?

Thou that wouldst taste it, Still do thy best; Use it, not waste it, Else 'tis no rest.

Wouldst behold beauty Near thee all round? Only hath duty Such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere.

'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean After its life.

Deeper devotion Nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion Heart never felt.

'Tis loving and serving The Highest and Best! 'Tis onwards, unswerving, And that is true rest.

—John Sullivan Dwight.

There is peace in power; the men who speak With the loudest tongues do least; And the surest sign of a mind that is weak Is its want of the power to rest.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

EQUANIMITY

Tost on a sea of troubles, Soul, my Soul, Thyself do thou control; And to the weapons of advancing foes A stubborn breast oppose: Undaunted 'mid the hostile might Of squadrons burning for the fight Thine be no boasting when the victor's crown Wins thee deserved renown; Thine no dejected sorrow, when defeat Would urge a base retreat; Rejoice in joyous things—nor overmuch Let grief thy bosom touch 'Midst evil, and still bear in mind How changeful are the ways of humankind.

—Archilochos, tr. by William Hay.

GOD'S PEACE

Grant us Thy peace, down from thy presence falling, As on the thirsty earth cool night-dews sweet; Grant us thy peace, to thy pure paths recalling, From devious ways, our worn and wandering feet.

Grant us Thy peace, through winning and through losing, Through gloom and gladness of our pilgrim way; Grant us thy peace, safe in thy love's enclosing, Thou who all things in heaven and earth dost sway.

Give us Thy peace, not as the world has given, In momentary rays that fitful gleamed, But calm, deep, sure, the peace of spirits shriven, Of hearts surrendered and of souls redeemed.

Grant us thy peace, that like a deepening river Swells ever outward to the sea of praise. O thou of peace the only Lord and Giver, Grant us thy peace, O Saviour, all our days.

—Eliza Scudder.

THE INNER CALM

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, While these hot breezes blow; Be like the night-dew's cooling balm Upon earth's fevered brow.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, Soft resting on thy breast; Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm And bid my spirit rest.

Yes, keep me calm, though loud and rude The sounds my ear that greet; Calm in the closet's solitude, Calm in the bustling street;

Calm in the hour of buoyant health, Calm in my hour of pain, Calm in my poverty or wealth, Calm in my loss or gain;

Calm when the great world's news with power My listening spirit stir; Let not the tidings of the hour E'er find too fond an ear;

Calm as the ray of sun or star Which storms assail in vain; Moving unruffled through earth's war, The eternal calm to gain.

—Horatius Bonar.

Father, take not away The burden of the day, But help me that I bear it As Christ his burden bore When cross and thorn he wore And none with him could share it; In his name help I pray!

I only ask for grace To see that patient face And my impatient one; Ask that mine grow like His— Sign of an inward peace From trust in thee alone, Unchanged by time or place.

And they who do their souls no wrong, But keep at eve the faith of morn, Shall daily hear the angel-song, To-day the Prince of Peace is born.

—James Russell Lowell.

Drop thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire Thy coolness and thy balm; Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire; Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire, O still, small voice of calm!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

As flows the river calm and deep. In silence toward the sea, So floweth ever, and ceaseth never, The love of God to me.

What peace He bringeth to my heart, Deep as the soundless sea; How sweetly singeth the soul that clingeth, My loving Lord, to thee.

He fails never. If He cannot work by us He will work through us. Let our souls be calm. We should be ashamed to sit beneath those stars, Impatient that we're nothing. Get work, get work; be sure 'tis better Than what you work to get.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Calm Soul of all things, make it mine To feel amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine Man did not make and cannot mar. The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give; Calm, calm me more, nor let me die Before I have begun to live.

—Matthew Arnold.

What secret trouble stirs thy heart? Why all this fret and flurry? Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From over-work and hurry?

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

We bless thee for thy peace, O God, Deep as the boundless sea, It falls like sunshine on the road, Of those who trust in thee; That peace which suffers and is strong, Trusts where it cannot see: Deems not the trial way too long, But leaves the end with thee.

Be calm in arguing: for fierceness makes Error a fault, and truth discourtesy. Why should I feel another man's mistakes More than his sicknesses or poverty? In love I should; but anger is not love, Nor wisdom, neither; therefore gently move.

—George Herbert.

Why fret thee, soul, For things beyond thy small control? But do thy part, and thou shalt see Heaven will have charge of them and thee. Sow then thy seed, and wait in peace The Lord's increase.

What is the use of worrying And flurrying and scurrying And breaking up one's rest; When all the world is teaching us And praying and beseeching us That quiet ways are best.

I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities A still and quiet conscience.

—William Shakespeare.

The stormy blast is strong, but mightier still The calm that binds the storm beneath its peaceful will.

—John Sterling.

As running water cleanseth bodies dropped therein So heavenly truth doth cleanse the secret heart from sin.

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

From our ill-ordered hearts we oft are fain to roam, As men go forth who find unquietness at home.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

A mind from every evil thought set free I count the noblest gift of Deity.

—Aeschylus, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

A stone makes not great rivers turbid grow; When saints are vexed their shallowness they show.

—Saadi.

Yes, Lord, one great eternal yes To all my Lord shall say; To what I know, or yet shall know, In all the untried way.

Good striving Brings thriving. Better a dog who works Than a lion who shirks.

—From the Persian.



HUMILITY

MEEKNESS, WEAKNESS, SELFLESSNESS

A LAST PRAYER

Father, I scarcely dare to pray, So clear I see, now it is done, That I have wasted half my day And left my work but just begun.

So clear I see that things I thought Were right, or harmless, were a sin; So clear I see that I have sought Unconscious, selfish aims to win;

So clear I see that I have hurt The souls I might have helped to save; That I have slothful been, inert, Deaf to the calls Thy leaders gave.

In outskirts of thy kingdom vast, Father, the humblest spot give me; Set me the lowliest task thou hast; Let me, repentant, work for thee.

—Helen Hunt Jackson.

A LOWLY HEART

Thy home is with the humble, Lord! The simplest are the best, Thy lodging is in childlike hearts: Thou makest there thy rest.

Dear Comforter! Eternal Love! If thou wilt stay with me, Of lowly thoughts and simple ways I'll build a house for thee.

Who made this beating heart of mine But Thou, my heavenly guest? Let no one have it, then, but thee, And let it be thy rest.

—Lyra Catholica.

Before the eyes of men let duly shine thy light, But ever let thy life's best part be out of sight.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM

I.

The Man who Loved the Names of Things Went forth beneath the skies And named all things that he beheld, And people called him wise. An unseen presence walked with him Forever by his side, The wedded mistress of his soul— For Knowledge was his bride; She named the flowers, the weeds, the trees, And all the growths of all the seas.

She told him all the rocks by name, The winds and whence they blew; She told him how the seas were formed, And how the mountains grew. She numbered all the stars for him; And all the rounded skies Were mapped and charted for the gaze Of his devouring eyes. Thus, taught by her, he taught the crowd; They praised—and he was very proud.

II.

The Man who Loved the Soul of Things Went forth serene and glad, And mused upon the mighty world, And people called him mad. An unseen presence walked with him Forever by his side, The wedded mistress of his soul— For Wisdom was his bride. She showed him all this mighty frame, And bade him feel—but named no name.

She stood with him upon the hills Ringed by the azure sky, And shamed his lowly thought with stars And bade it climb as high. And all the birds he could not name, The nameless stars that roll, The unnamed blossoms at his feet Talked with him soul to soul; He heard the Nameless Glory speak In silence—and was very meek.

—Sam Walter Foss.

THE INQUIRY

I wonder if ever a song was sung but the singer's heart sang sweeter! I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung but the thought surpassed the meter! I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought! Or if ever the painter with light and shade the dream of his inmost heart portrayed!

I wonder if ever a rose was found and there might not be a fairer! Or if ever a glittering gem was ground and we dreamed not of a rarer! Ah! never on earth do we find the best; but it waits for us in the land of rest, And a perfect thing we shall never behold till we pass the portals of shining gold.

A SONG OF LOW DEGREE

He that is down need fear no fall; He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it, or much; And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

—John Bunyan.

NOT YET PREPARED

O thou unpolished shaft, why leave the quiver? O thou blunt axe, what forests canst thou hew? Untempered sword, canst thou the oppressed deliver? Go back to thine own maker's forge anew.

Submit thyself to God for preparation, Seek not to teach thy Master and thy Lord; Call it not zeal; it is a base temptation. Satan is pleased when man dictates to God.

Down with thy pride! with holy vengeance trample On each self-flattering fancy that appears; Did not the Lord himself, for our example, Lie hid in Nazareth for thirty years?

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle-line— Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget.

The tumult and the shouting dies— The Captains and the Kings depart— Still stands thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget.

Far-called our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre. Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget.

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe— Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget.

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard. For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on thy people, Lord.

—Rudyard Kipling.

In humbleness, O Lord, I ask That thou bestow on me The will and strength to do some task For growth of love for thee; Some task, not of my chosen will— For wisdom is not mine— But let my frailsome life fulfill Some perfect thought of thine.

I WILL NOT SEEK

I cannot think but God must know About the thing I long for so; I know he is so good, so kind, I cannot think but he will find Some way to help, some way to show Me to the thing I long for so.

I stretch my hand; it lies so near, It looks so sweet, it looks so dear, "Dear Lord," I pray, "O let me know If it is wrong to want it so!" He only smiles, he does not speak; My heart grows weaker and more weak With looking at the thing so dear, Which lies so far, and yet so near.

Now, Lord, I leave at thy loved feet This thing which looks so near, so sweet; I will not seek, I will not long; I almost fear I have been wrong; I'll go, and work the harder, Lord, And wait, till by some loud, clear word Thou callest me to thy loved feet To take this thing so dear, so sweet.

—Saxe Holm.

TRIUMPHING IN OTHERS

Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong, Finish what I begin, And all I fail of win.

What matter, I or they, Mine or another's day, So the right word be said, And life the sweeter made?

Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples! Sound, trumpets far-off blown, Your triumph is my own.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high; So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be; Sink not in spirit; who aimeth at the sky Shoots higher much than he that means a tree. A grain of glory mixed with humbleness Cures both a fever and lethargickness.

—George Herbert.

FOR DIVINE STRENGTH

Father, in thy mysterious presence kneeling, Fain would our souls feel all thy kindling love; For we are weak and need some deep revealing Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.

Lord, we have wandered far through doubt and sorrow, And thou hast made each step an onward one; And we will ever trust each unknown morrow— Thou wilt sustain us till its work is done.

In the heart's depths a peace serene and holy Abides; and when pain seems to have its will, Or we despair, O may that peace rise slowly Stronger than agony, and we be still!

Now, Father, now, in thy dear presence kneeling, Our spirits yearn to feel thy kindling love; Now make us strong, we need thy deep revealing, Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.

—Samuel Johnson.

WHEN I AM WEAK THEN AM I STRONG

Half feeling our own weakness, We place our hands in Thine— Knowing but half our darkness We ask for light divine. Then, when Thy strong arm holds us, Our weakness most we feel, And thy love and light around us Our darkness must reveal.

Too oft, when faithless doubtings Around our spirits press, We cry, "Can hands so feeble Grasp such almightiness?" While thus we doubt and tremble Our hold still looser grows; While on our darkness gazing Vainly thy radiance glows.

Oh, cheer us with Thy brightness, And guide us by thy hand, In thy light teach us light to see, In thy strength strong to stand. Then though our hands be feeble, If they but touch thine arm, Thy light and power shall lead us, And keep us strong and calm.

A HUMBLE HEART

I would not ask Thee that my days Should flow quite smoothly on and on, Lest I should learn to love the world Too well, ere all my time was done.

I would not ask Thee that my work Should never bring me pain nor fear; Lest I should learn to work alone, And never wish thy presence near.

I would not ask Thee that my friends Should always kind and constant be; Lest I should learn to lay my faith In them alone, and not in thee.

But I would ask a humble heart, A changeless will to work and wake, A firm faith in Thy providence, The rest—'tis thine to give or take.

—Alfred Norris.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, The mere material with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much, Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

—William Cowper.

Humble we must be if to heaven we go; High is the roof there; but the gate is low.

—Robert Herrick.

NOT MINE

It is not mine to run, with eager feet, Along life's crowded ways, my Lord to meet.

It is not mine to pour the oil and wine Or bring the purple robe and linen fine.

It is not mine to break at his dear feet The alabaster box of ointment sweet.

It is not mine to bear his heavy cross, Or suffer, for his sake, all pain and loss.

It is not mine to walk through valleys dim, Or climb far mountain heights alone with him.

He hath no need of me in grand affairs, Where fields are lost or crowns won unawares.

Yet, Master, if I may make one pale flower Bloom brighter, for thy sake, though one short hour;

If I in harvest fields where strong ones reap, May bind one golden sheaf for love to keep;

May speak one quiet word when all is still, Helping some fainting heart to bear thy will;

Or sing some high, clear song on which may soar Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more.

—Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

Christ wants the best. He in the far-off ages Once claimed the firstling of the flock, the finest of the wheat; And still he asks his own with gentlest pleading To lay their highest hopes and brightest talents at his feet. He'll not forget the feeblest service, humblest love; He only asks that of our stores we give to him the best we have.

PRAISE DEPRECATED

My sins and follies, Lord, by thee From others hidden are, That such good words are spoke of me As now and then I hear; For sure if others know me such, Such as myself I know, I should have been dispraised as much As I am praised now.

The praise, therefore, which I have heard, Delights not so my mind, As those things make my heart afeard Which in myself I find; And I had rather to be blamed, So I were blameless made, Than for much virtue to be famed When I no virtues had.

Though slanders to an innocent Sometimes do bitter grow, Their bitterness procures content, If clear himself he know. And when a virtuous man hath erred If praised himself he hear, It makes him grieve and more afeard Than if he slandered were.

Lord, therefore make my heart upright, Whate'er my deeds do seem; And righteous rather in thy sight, Than in the world's esteem. And if aught good appears to be In any act of mine, Let thankfulness be found in me, And all the praise be thine.

—George Wither (1588-1667).

One part, one little part, we dimly scan, Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem, Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. O then renounce that impious self-esteem That aims to trace the secrets of the skies; For thou art but of dust, be humble and be wise.

—James Beattie.

HUMILITY

O humble me! I cannot bide the joy That in my Saviour's presence ever flows; May I be lowly, lest it may destroy The peace his childlike spirit ever knows. I would not speak thy word, but by thee stand While thou dost to thine erring children speak; O help me but to keep his own command, And in my strength to feel me ever weak; Then in thy presence shall I humbly stay, Nor lose the life of love he came to give; And find at last the life, the truth, the way To where with him thy blessed servants live; And walk forever in the path of truth— A servant, yet a son; a sire and yet a youth.

—Jones Very.

TURN FROM SELF

This is the highest learning, The hardest and the best— From self to keep still turning, And honor all the rest.

If one should break the letter, Yea, spirit of command, Think not that thou art better; Thou may'st not always stand!

We all are weak—but weaker Hold no one than thou art; Then, as thou growest meeker, Higher will go thy heart.

—George Macdonald.

In proud humility a pious man went through the field; The ears of corn were bowing in the wind, as if they kneeled; He struck them on the head, and modestly began to say, "Unto the Lord, not unto me, such honors should you pay."

—From the Persian.

MEEKNESS OF MOSES

Moses, the patriot fierce, became The meekest man on earth, To show us how love's quickening flame Can give our souls new birth.

Moses, the man of meekest heart, Lost Canaan by self-will, To show, where grace has done its part, How sin defiles us still.

Thou who hast taught me in thy fear, Yet seest me frail at best, Oh, grant me loss with Moses here, To gain his future rest.

—John Henry Newman.

LAUS DEO

Let praise devote thy work, and skill employ Thy whole mind, and thy heart be lost in joy. Well-doing bringeth pride; this constant thought Humility, that thy best done is naught. Man doeth nothing well, be it great or small, Save to praise God; but that hath saved all. For God requires no more than thou hast done, And takes thy work to bless it for his own.

—Robert Bridges.

"A commonplace life," we say, and we sigh; But why should we sigh as we say? The commonplace sun in the commonplace sky Makes up the commonplace day. The moon and the stars are commonplace things, And the flower that blooms and the bird that sings, But dark were the world and sad our lot If the flowers failed and the sun shone not; And God, who studies each separate soul Out of commonplace lives makes his beautiful whole.

Humility, that low, sweet root From which all heavenly virtues shoot.

—Thomas Moore.

THE EVERLASTING MEMORIAL

Up and away, like the dew of the morning That soars from the earth to its home in the sun, So let me steal away, gently and lovingly, Only remembered by what I have done.

My name, and my place, and my tomb all forgotten, The brief race of time well and patiently run, So let me pass away, peacefully, silently, Only remembered by what I have done.

Gladly away from this toil would I hasten, Up to the crown that for me has been won; Unthought of by man in rewards or in praises; Only remembered by what I have done.

Up and away, like the odors of sunset, That sweeten the twilight as evening comes on, So be my life—a thing felt but not noticed,— And I but remembered by what I have done.

Yes, like the fragrance that wanders in freshness When the flowers that it came from are closed up and gone. So would I be to this world's weary dwellers Only remembered by what I have done.

I need not be missed, if my life has been bearing (As its summer and autumn move silently on) The bloom, and the fruit, and the seed of its season; I shall still be remembered by what I have done.

Needs there the praise of the love-written record, The name and the epitaph graved on the stone? The things we have lived for—let them be our story— We ourselves but remembered by what we have done.

I need not be missed if another succeed me, To reap down the fields which in spring I have sown; He who plowed and who sowed is not missed by the reaper, He is only remembered by what he has done.

Not myself, but the truth that in life I have spoken, Not myself, but the seed that in life I have sown, Shall pass on to ages—all about me forgotten, Save the truth I have spoken, the things I have done.

So let my living be, so be my dying; So let my name lie, unblazoned, unknown; Unpraised and unmissed, I shall still be remembered; Yes, but remembered for what I have done.

—Horatius Bonar.

SELF

O I could go through all life's troubles singing, Turning earth's night to day, If self were not so fast around me clinging, To all I do or say.

O Lord! that I could waste my life for others, With no ends of my own, That I could pour myself into my brothers And live for them alone!

Such was the life thou livedst; self-abjuring, Thine own pains never easing, Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring; A life without self-pleasing.

—Frederick William Faber.

BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US

The time for toil is past, and night has come— The last and saddest of the harvest eves; Worn out with labor, long and wearisome, Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, Each laden with his sheaves.

Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain, Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves That I am burdened not so much with grain As with a heaviness of heart and brain; Master, behold my sheaves.

Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weight Through all my frame a weary aching leaves; For long I struggled with my hapless fate, And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late— Yet these are all my sheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feet I kneel down reverently and repeat, "Master, behold my sheaves!"

I know these blossoms clustering heavily, With evening dew upon their folded leaves, Can claim no value or utility— Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be The glory of my sheaves.

So do I gather strength and hope anew; For well I know thy patient love perceives Not what I did, but what I strove to do, And though the full ripe ears be sadly few Thou wilt accept my sheaves.

—Elizabeth Akers.

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place, And lordly sway; I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

If thou art blest, Then let the sunshine of thy gladness rest On the dark edges of each cloud that lies Black in thy brother's skies. If thou art sad, Still be in thy brother's gladness glad.

—Hamilton.

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is.

—Alfred Tennyson.

Praise not thy work, but let thy work praise thee; For deeds, not words, make each man's memory stable. If what thou dost is good, its good all men will see; Musk by its smell is known, not by its label.

When thou art fain to trace a map of thine own heart, An undiscovered land set down the largest part.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Patient, resigned and humble wills Impregnably resist all ills.

—Thomas Ken.

He is one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need.

—William Wordsworth.

Be not too ready to condemn The wrong thy brothers may have done: Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask, "Have I none?"

—Eliza Cook.

Search thine own heart. What paineth thee In others in thyself may be; All dust is frail, all flesh is weak; Be thou the true man thou dost seek.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Through wish, resolve, and act, our will Is moved by undreamed forces still; And no man measures in advance His strength with untried circumstance.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone. Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In the deed that no man knoweth, Where no praiseful trumpet bloweth, Where he may not reap who soweth, There, Lord, let my heart serve thee.

O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An' foolish notion.

—Robert Burns.



CONTENTMENT

RESIGNATION, PATIENCE, COMPENSATION

CONTENTMENT

Father, I know that all my life Is portioned out for me, And the changes that are sure to come I do not fear to see; I ask Thee for a patient mind, Intent on pleasing thee.

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, Through constant watching wise, To meet the glad with joyful smiles, And wipe the weeping eyes, And a heart, at leisure from itself, To soothe and sympathize.

I would not have the restless will That hurries to and fro, Seeking for some great thing to do, Or secret thing to know; I would be treated as a child, And guided where I go.

Wherever in this world I am, In whatsoe'er estate, I have a fellowship with hearts To keep and cultivate, And a work of lowly love to do For the Lord on whom I wait.

So I ask Thee for the daily strength— To none that ask denied— And a mind to blend with outward life, While keeping at thy side, Content to fill a little space, If thou be glorified.

And if some things I do not ask In my cup of blessing be, I would have my spirit filled the more With grateful love to thee; More careful not to serve thee much, But to please thee perfectly.

There are briers besetting every path, Which call for constant care; There is a cross in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer; But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee, Is happy everywhere.

In a service which Thy love appoints There are no bonds for me, For my secret heart has learned the truth Which makes thy children free, And a life of self-renouncing love Is a life of liberty.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

TWO PICTURES

An old farm house with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side; A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out The door with woodbine wreathed about, And wishes his one thought all day: "O if I could but fly away! From this dull spot the world to see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!"

Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng, Is thinking, thinking all day long: "O could I only tread once more The field-path to the farm-house door, The old green meadow could I see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!"

—Annie Douglas Robinson.

Happy the man, of mortals happiest he, Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free; Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment, But lives in peace, within himself content; In thought, or act, accountable to none But to himself, and unto God alone.

—Henry P. F. Lansdowne.

CONTENT I LIVE

My mind to me a kingdom is; Such perfect joy therein I find As far exceeds all earthly bliss That God or nature hath assigned: Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live; this is my stay— I seek no more than may suffice. I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with what my mind doth bring.

I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that as another's bane. I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend. I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease; My conscience clear my chief defense; I never seek by bribes to please Nor by desert to give offense. Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so, as well as I.

—Edward Dyer. Alt. by William Byrd (1540-1625).

JUST AS GOD LEADS

Just as God leads me I would go; I would not ask to choose my way; Content with what he will bestow, Assured he will not let me stray. So, as he leads, my path I make, And step by step I gladly take— A child, in him confiding.

Just as God leads I am content; I rest me calmly in his hands; That which he has decreed and sent— That which his will for me commands— I would that he should all fulfill, That I should do his gracious will In living or in dying.

Just as God leads, I all resign; I trust me to my Father's will; When reason's rays deceptive shine, His counsel would I yet fulfill; That which his love ordained as right Before he brought me to the right My all to him resigning.

Just as God leads me, I abide In faith, in hope, in suffering true; His strength is ever by my side— Can aught my hold on him undo? I hold me firm in patience, knowing That God my life is still bestowing— The best in kindness sending.

Just as God leads I onward go, Out amid thorns and briers keen; God does not yet his guidance show— But in the end it shall be seen. How, by a loving Father's will, Faithful and true, he leads me still. And so my heart is resting.

—From the German.

SWEET CONTENT

O Thou, by long experience tried, Near whom no grief can long abide; My Lord, how full of sweet content I pass my years of banishment!

All scenes alike engaging prove To souls impressed with sacred love! Where'er they dwell they dwell in Thee In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.

To me remains nor place nor time, My country is in every clime; I can be calm and free from care On any shore, since God is there.

While place we seek, or place we shun, The soul finds happiness in none; But with a God to guide our way 'Tis equal joy to go or stay.

Could I be cast where Thou art not, That were indeed a dreadful lot; But regions none remote I call, Secure of finding God in all.

—Madame Guyon.

CONTENT AND RICH

My conscience is my crown, Contented thoughts my rest; My heart is happy in itself, My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth; A mean, the surest lot; That lies too high for base contempt, Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few, All easy to fulfill; I make the limits of my power The bounds unto my will.

I feel no care of coin; Well doing is my wealth; My mind to me an empire is, While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts, The wings of swelling pride; Their fall is worst that from the height Of greatest honor slide.

Since sails of largest size The storm doth soonest tear, I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late enraged foe Into a quiet friend.

And, taught with often proof, A tempered calm I find To be most solace to itself, Best cure for angry mind.

No change of fortune's calms Can cast my comforts down; When Fortune smiles I smile to think How quickly she will frown.

And when in froward mood She proves an angry foe, Small gain I found to let her come, Less loss to let her go.

—Robert Southwell, 1561-95. (One of the Jesuit Fathers who were cruelly executed by Queen Elizabeth.)

Don't lose Courage! Spirit brave Carry with you to the grave.

Don't lose Time in vain distress! Work, not worry, brings success.

Don't lose Hope! who lets her stray Goes forlornly all the way.

Don't lose Patience, come what will! Patience ofttimes outruns skill.

Don't lose Gladness! every hour Blooms for you some happy flower.

Though be foiled your dearest plan, Don't lose Faith in God and man!

A CONTRAST

Two men toiled side by side from sun to sun, And both were poor; Both sat with children, when the day was done, About their door. One saw the beautiful in crimson cloud And shining moon; The other, with his head in sadness bowed, Made night of noon. One loved each tree and flower and singing bird, On mount or plain; No music in the soul of one was stirred By leaf or rain. One saw the good in every fellow-man And hoped the best; The other marvelled at his Master's plan, And doubt confessed. One, having heaven above and heaven below, Was satisfied; The other, discontented, lived in woe, And hopeless died.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

WHO BIDES HIS TIME

Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay However poor his fortunes be— He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty; the paltry dime— It will grow golden in his palm Who bides his time.

Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet Joy runs to meet him drawing near; The birds are heralds of his cause, And like a never-ending rhyme The roadsides bloom in his applause Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not In a hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet ring, Who bides his time.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

CARELESS CONTENT

I am content; I do not care; Wag as it will the world for me; When Fuss and Fret was all my fare It got no ground, as I could see. So when away my caring went I counted cost and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought I strive to make my matters meet; To seek, what ancient sages sought, Physic and food in sour and sweet. To take what passes in good part, And keep the hiccups from the heart.

With good and gentle-humored hearts I choose to chat, whene'er I come, Whate'er the subject be that starts; But if I get among the glum I hold my tongue, to tell the truth, And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain; For fortune's favor or her frown; For luck or glut, for loss or gain, I never dodge, nor up nor down: But swing what way the ship shall swim, Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed, Nor trace the turn of every tide; If simple sense will not succeed, I make no bustling, but abide; For shining wealth, or scoring woe, I force no friend, I fear no foe.

I love my neighbor as myself; Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf Came I to crouch, as I conceive; Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind.

Now taste and try this temper, sirs; Mood it and brood it in your breast; Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, That man does right to mar his rest, Let me be left, and debonair; I am content; I do not care.

—John Byrom (1692-1763).

Some of your hurts you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived, But what torments of grief you endured From the evils which never arrived.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

HAPPY ANY WAY

Lord, it belongs not to my care Whether I die or live; To love and serve thee is my share, And this thy grace must give.

If life be long, I will be glad That I may long obey; If short, yet why should I be sad To soar to endless day?

Christ leads me through no darker rooms Than he went through before; He that into God's kingdom comes Must enter by his door.

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet Thy blessed face to see; For, if thy work on earth be sweet, What will thy glory be?

Then I shall end my sad complaints, And weary, sinful days, And join with the triumphant saints Who sing Jehovah's praise.

My knowledge of that life is small; The eye of faith is dim; But 'tis enough that Christ knows all, And I shall be with him.

—Richard Baxter.

THE THINGS I MISS

An easy thing, O Power Divine, To thank thee for these gifts of thine! For summer's sunshine, winter's snow, For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow; But when shall I attain to this: To thank thee for the things I miss?

For all young fancy's early gleams, The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams. Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures known Through others' fortunes, not my own, And blessings seen that are not given, And ne'er will be, this side of heaven.

Had I, too, shared the joys I see, Would there have been a heaven for me? Could I have felt thy presence near Had I possessed what I held dear? My deepest fortune, highest bliss, Have grown, perchance, from things I miss.

Sometimes there comes an hour of calm; Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm; A Power that works above my will Still leads me onward, upward still; And then my heart attains to this: To thank thee for the things I miss.

—Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

THE HERITAGE

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart; A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten soft, white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

—James Russell Lowell.

I AM CONTENT

I am content. In trumpet tones My song let people know; And many a mighty man with thrones And scepter is not so. And if he is I joyful cry, Why, then he's just the same as I.

My motto is—Content with this; Gold—place—I prize not such. That which I have my measure is: Wise men desire not much. Men wish and wish, and have their will, And wish again as hungry still.

And gold and honor are besides A very brittle glass; And time, in his unresting tides Makes all things change and pass: Turns riches to a beggar's dole; Sets glory's race an infant's goal.

Be noble—that is more than wealth; Do right—that's more than place; Then in the spirit there is health And gladness in the face: Then thou art with thyself at one And, no man hating, fearest none.

—George Macdonald.

MADAME LOFTY

Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage, So do I; She has dappled grays to draw it, None have I. She's no prouder of her coachman Than am I With my blue-eyed laughing baby Trundling by. I hide his face, lest she should see The cherub boy and envy me.

Her fine husband has white fingers, Mine has not; He can give his bride a palace, Mine a cot. Hers comes home beneath the starlight, Ne'er cares she; Mine comes in the purple twilight, Kisses me, And prays that He who turns life's sands Will hold his loved ones in his hands.

Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, So have I; She wears hers upon her bosom, Inside I. She will leave hers at Death's portals, By and by; I shall bear the treasures with me When I die— For I have love, and she has gold; She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.

She has those who love her station, None have I, But I've one true heart beside me; Glad am I; I'd not change it for a kingdom, No, not I; God will weigh it in a balance, By and by; And then the difference he'll define 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine.

So long as life's hope-sparkle glows, 'tis good; When death delivers from life's woes, 'tis good. Oh praise the Lord who makes all good, and will; Whether he life or death bestows, 'tis good.

THE WIND THAT BLOWS, THAT WIND IS BEST

Whichever way the wind doth blow, Some heart is glad to have it so; Then blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone; A thousand fleet from every zone Are out upon a thousand seas; And what for me were favoring breeze Might dash another with the shock Of doom upon some hidden rock. And so I do not dare to pray For winds to waft me on my way; But leave it to a Higher Will To stay or speed me, trusting still That ill is well, and sure that He Who launched my bark will sail with me Through storm and calm, and will not fail, Whatever breezes may prevail, To land me, every peril past, Within his sheltering heaven at last.

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow, My heart is glad to have it so; And, blow it east or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

THE DIFFERENCE

Some murmur, when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue. And some with thankful love are filled If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy, gild The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask, In discontent and pride, Why life is such a dreary task And all things good denied. Yet hearts in poorest huts admire How love has in their aid (Love that not ever seems to tire) Such rich provision made.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Give what Thou canst; without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

—William Cowper.

RICHES AND POWER

Cleon has a million acres, Ne'er a one have I; Cleon dwelleth in a palace, In a cottage I. Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, Not a penny I; Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesseth acres, But the landscape I; Half the charms to me it yieldeth, Money cannot buy. Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, Freshening vigor I; He in velvet, I in fustian, Richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, Free as thought am I; Cleon fees a score of doctors, Need of none have I. Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die. Death may come, he'll find me ready. Happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charm in nature, In a daisy I; Cleon hears no anthem ringing In the sea and sky; Nature sings to me forever, Earnest listener I! State for state, with all attendants, Who would change? Not I.

—Charles Mackay.

ENOUGH

I am so weak, dear Lord, I cannot stand One moment without thee; But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding, And oh, the faithfulness of thine upholding, And oh, the strength of thy right hand! That strength is enough for me.

I am so needy, Lord, and yet I know All fullness dwells in thee; And hour by hour that never-failing treasure Supplies and fills in overflowing measure, My last, my greatest need. And so Thy grace is enough for me.

It is so sweet to trust THY WORD alone! I do not ask to see The unveiling of thy purpose, or the shining Of future light or mysteries untwining; The promise-roll is all my own, Thy word is enough for me.

The human heart asks love. But now I know That my heart hath from Thee All real, and full, and marvelous affection So near, so human! yet Divine perfection Thrills gloriously the mighty glow! Thy love is enough for me.

There were strange soul depths, restless, vast and broad Unfathomed as the sea. An infinite craving for some infinite stilling; But now Thy perfect love is perfect filling! Lord Jesus Christ, my Lord, my God, Thou, thou art enough for me!

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

FULLY CONTENT

I know not, and I would not know, Content, I leave it all with Thee; 'Tis ever best it should be so; As thou wilt have it let it be.

But this I know: that every day And every step for me is planned; I surely cannot lose the Way While He is holding fast my hand.

And surely, whatsoe'er betide, I never shall be left alone: Thou standest ever by my side; To thee my future all is known.

And wheresoe'er my lot may fall The way before is marked by Thee; The windings of my life are all Unfoldings of thy Love to me.

What matter will it be, O mortal man, when thou art dying, Whether upon a throne or on the bare earth thou art lying?

—From the Persian.

CONTENT WITH ALL

Content that God's decree Should order all for thee. Content with sickness or with health— Content with poverty or wealth— Content to walk in humble guise, And as He wills it sink or rise.

Content to live alone And call no place thine own. No sweet reunions day by day. Thy kindred spirits far away. And, since God wills to have it so, Thou wouldst not change for weal or woe.

Content that others rise Before thy very eyes. How bright their lot and portion here! Wealth fills their coffers—friends are near. Behold their mansions tall and fair! The timbrel and the dance are there.

Content to toil or rest— God's peace within thy breast— To feel thy times are in His hand Who holds all worlds in his command— Thy time to laugh—thy time to sigh— Thy time to live—thy time to die.

And is it so indeed Thou art with God agreed? Content 'mid all the ills of life? Farewell, then, sorrow, pain and strife! Such high content is heaven begun. The battle's fought, the victory won!

—Mary Ann W. Cook.

A BLESSED LESSON

Have I learned, in whatsoever State to be content? Have I learned this blessed lesson By my Master sent— And with joyous acquiescence Do I greet His will Even when my own is thwarted And my hands lie still?

Surely it is best and sweetest Thus to have Him choose, Even though some work I've taken By this choice I lose. Folded hands need not be idle— Fold them but in prayer; Other souls may toil far better For God's answer there.

They that "reap" receive their "wages," Those who "work" their "crown," Those who pray throughout the ages Bring blest answers down; In "whatever state" abiding Till the Master call, They at eventide will find Him Glorified in all.

What though I can do so little For my Lord and King, At His feet I sit and listen, At His feet I sing. And, whatever my condition, All in love is meant; Sing, my soul, thy recognition, Sing, and be content!

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

Led by kindlier hand than ours, We journey through this earthly scene, And should not, in our weary hours, Turn to regret what might have been.

And yet these hearts, when torn by pain, Or wrung by disappointment keen, Will seek relief from present cares In thoughts of joys that might have been.

But let us still these wishes vain; We know not that of which we dream. Our lives might have been sadder yet God only knows what might have been.

Forgive us, Lord, our little faith; And help us all, from morn to e'en, Still to believe that lot were best Which is—not that which might have been.

And grant we may so pass the days The cradle and the grave between, That death's dark hour not darker be For thoughts of what life might have been.

—George Z. Gray.

Hushing every muttered murmur, Let your fortitude the firmer Gird your soul with strength. While, no treason near her lurking, Patience in her perfect working, Shall be Queen at length.

BE CONTENT

Be thou content; be still before His face at whose right hand doth reign Fullness of joy for evermore, Without whom all thy toil is vain; He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays Make glad with life and light thy dreary days. Be thou content.

In him is comfort, light, and grace, And changeless love beyond our thought; The sorest pang, the worst disgrace, If he is there, shall harm thee not. He can lift off thy cross and loose thy bands, And calm thy fears; nay, death is in His hands. Be thou content.

Or art thou friendless and alone— Hast none in whom thou canst confide? God careth for thee, lonely one— Comfort and help he will provide. He sees thy sorrows, and thy hidden grief, He knoweth when to send thee quick relief; Be thou content.

Thy heart's unspoken pain he knows, Thy secret sighs he hears full well; What to none else thou darest disclose To him thou mayest with boldness tell. He is not far away, but ever nigh, And answereth willingly the poor man's cry: Be thou content.

MANNA

'Twas in the night the manna fell That fed the hosts of Israel.

Enough for each day's fullest store And largest need; enough, no more.

For willful waste, for prideful show, God sent not angels' food below.

Still in our nights of deep distress The manna falls our heart to bless.

And, famished, as we cry for bread, With heavenly food our lives are fed,

And each day's need finds each day's store Enough. Dear Lord, what want we more!

—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

BLESSINGS NEAR AT HAND

We look too far for blessings; We seek too far for joys; We ought to be like children Who find their chiefest toys

Ofttimes in nearest attic, Or in some dingy lane— Their aprons full of weeds or flowers Gathered in sun or rain.

Within the plainest cottage Unselfish love may grow; The sweetest, the divinest gift, Which mortals ever know.

We ought to count our joys, not woes; Meet care with winsome grace; For discontent plows furrows Upon the loveliest face.

Hope, freedom, sunlight, knowledge, Come not to wealth alone; He who looks far for blessings Will overlook his own.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

I WOULDN'T

A sprig of mint by the wayward brook, A nibble of birch in the wood, A summer day, and love, and a book, And I wouldn't be a king if I could.

—John Vance Cheney.

The way to make thy son rich is to fill His mind with rest before his trunk with riches: For wealth without contentment climbs a hill To feel those tempests which fly over ditches.

—George Herbert.

THE JEWEL

There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, No chemic art can counterfeit; It makes men rich in greatest poverty, Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, The homely whistle to sweet music's strain; Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, That much in little, all in naught—Content.

FINDING CONTENT

I could not find the little maid Content, So out I rushed, and sought her far and wide; But not where Pleasure each new fancy tried, Heading the maze of rioting merriment, Nor where, with restless eyes and bow half bent, Love in the brake of sweetbriar smiled and sighed, Nor yet where Fame towered, crowned and glorified, Found I her face, nor wheresoe'er I went. So homeward back I crawled, like wounded bird, When lo! Content sate spinning at my door; And when I asked her where she was before— "Here all the time," she said; "I never stirred; Too eager in thy search, you passed me o'er, And, though I called you, neither saw nor heard."

—Alfred Austin.

DAILY STRENGTH

Day by day the manna fell; O to learn this lesson well; Still by constant mercy fed, Give me, Lord, my daily bread.

"Day by day," the promise reads; Daily strength for daily needs; Cast foreboding fears away; Take the manna of to-day.

Lord, my times are in thy hand. All my sanguine hopes have planned To thy wisdom I resign, And would make thy purpose thine.

Thou my daily task shalt give; Day by day to Thee I live; So shall added years fulfill Not my own—my Father's will.

Fond ambition, whisper not; Happy is my humble lot; Anxious, busy cares away; I'm provided for to-day.

O to live exempt from care By the energy of prayer; Strong in faith, with mind subdued, Yet elate with gratitude.

—Josiah Conder.

GOD IS ENOUGH

God is enough! thou, who in hope and fear Toilest through desert sands of life, sore tried, Climb, trustful, over death's black ridge, for near The bright wells shine; thou wilt be satisfied.

God doth suffice! O thou, the patient one, Who puttest faith in him, and none beside, Bear yet thy load; under the setting sun The glad tents gleam; thou wilt be satisfied

By God's gold Afternoon! peace ye shall have; Man is in loss except he live aright, And help his fellow to be firm and brave, Faithful and patient; then the restful night.

—Edwin Arnold, from the Arabian.

THE TRULY RICH

They're richer who diminish their desires, Though their possessions be not amplified, Than monarchs, who in owning large empires, Have minds that never will be satisfied. For he is poor who wants what he would have, And rich who, having naught, doth nothing crave.

—T. Urchard.

THY ALLOTMENT

Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident, It is the very place God meant for thee; And shouldst thou there small scope for action see Do not for this give room to discontent, Nor let the time thou owest God be spent In idle dreaming how thou mightest be, In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free From outward hindrance or impediment. For presently this hindrance thou shalt find That without which all goodness were a task So slight that virtue never could grow strong; And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind— The Imposer's—over-burdened thou shalt ask, And own thy need of, grace to help ere long.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

THE HAPPIEST HEART

Who drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way.

The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Aye, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet, And left to Heaven the rest.

—John Vance Cheney.

WELCOME THE SHADOWS

Welcome the shadows; where they blackest are Burns through the bright supernal hour; From blindness of wide dark looks out the star, From all death's night the April flower.

For beauty and for gladness of the days Bring but the meed of trust; The April grass looks up from barren ways, The daisy from the dust.

When of this flurry thou shalt have thy fill, The thing thou seekest, it will seek thee then: The heavens repeat themselves in waters still And in the faces of contented men.

—John Vance Cheney.

THE DAILY COURSE

New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies each returning day Hover around us while we pray; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

If on our daily course our mind Be set to hallow all we find, New treasures still, of countless price, God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be As more of heaven in each we see; Some softening gleam of love and prayer Shall dawn on every cross and care.

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbor and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky.

The trivial round, the common task, Will furnish all we ought to ask: Room to deny ourselves a road To bring us daily nearer God.

Seek we no more; content with these, Let present rapture, comfort, ease, As Heaven shall bid them, come and go; The secret, this, of rest below.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love Fit us for perfect rest above; And help us this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray.

—John Keble.

GOD ENOUGH

Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee; All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance Attaineth to all things; Who God possesseth In nothing is wanting; Alone God sufficeth.

—St. Teresa, tr. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE GOLDEN MEAN

He that holds fast the golden mean And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Embittering all his state.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

If every man's internal care Were written on his brow, How many would our pity share Who raise our envy now?

The fatal secret, when revealed, Of every aching breast, Would prove that only while concealed Their lot appeared the best.

—Pietro Metastasio.

Let us be content in work To do the thing we can, and not presume To fret because it's little.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

If none were sick and none were sad, What service could we render? I think if we were always glad, We scarcely could be tender. If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart— Life would be disenchanted.

A pilgrim, bound to Mecca, quite away his sandals wore, And on the desert's blistering sand his feet grew very sore. "To let me suffer thus, great Allah, is not kind nor just, While in thine service I confront the painful heat and dust." He murmured in complaining tone; and in this temper came To where, around the Kaaba, pilgrims knelt of every name; And there he saw, while pity and remorse his bosom beat, A pilgrim who not only wanted shoes, but feet.

—From the Persian, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Strength for to-day is all that we need, As there never will be a to-morrow; For to-morrow will prove but another to-day With its measure of joy or of sorrow.

Don't think your lot the worst because Some griefs your joy assail; There aren't so very many saws That never strike a nail.

—Nixon Waterman.

When it drizzles and drizzles, If we cheerfully smile, We can make the weather, By working together, As fair as we choose in a little while. For who will notice that clouds are drear If pleasant faces are always near, And who will remember that skies are gray If he carries a happy heart all day?



ASPIRATION

DESIRE, SUPPLICATION, GROWTH

GRADATIM

Heaven is not reached by a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true: That the noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain, By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are treading the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings, Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men! We may borrow the wings to find the way; We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray; But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls, But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

—Josiah Gilbert Holland.

MORE AND MORE

Purer yet and purer I would be in mind, Dearer yet and dearer Every duty find; Hoping still and trusting God without a fear, Patiently believing He will make it clear.

Calmer yet and calmer Trials bear and pain, Surer yet and surer Peace at last to gain; Suffering still and doing, To his will resigned, And to God subduing Heart and will and mind.

Higher yet and higher Out of clouds and night, Nearer yet and nearer Rising to the light— Light serene and holy— Where my soul may rest, Purified and lowly, Sanctified and blest.

—Johann W. von Goethe.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the last year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in its last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn; While on my ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul! As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

WALKING WITH JESUS

My Saviour, on the Word of Truth In earnest hope I live, I ask for all the precious things Thy boundless love can give. I look for many a lesser light About my path to shine; But chiefly long to walk with thee, And only trust in thine.

Thou knowest that I am not blest As Thou would'st have me be Till all the peace and joy of faith Possess my soul in thee; And still I seek 'mid many fears, With yearnings unexpressed, The comfort of thy strengthening love, Thy soothing, settling rest.

It is not as Thou wilt with me Till, humbled in the dust, I know no place in all my heart Wherein to put my trust: Until I find, O Lord! in thee— The lowly and the meek— That fullness which thy own redeemed Go nowhere else to seek.

Then, O my Saviour! on my soul, Cast down but not dismayed, Still be thy chastening healing hand In tender mercy laid: And while I wait for all thy joys My yearning heart to fill, Teach me to walk and work with thee, And at thy feet sit still.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

A PRAYER TO THE GOD OF NATURE

God of the roadside weed, Grant I may humbly serve the humblest need.

God of the scarlet rose, Give me the beauty that Thy love bestows.

God of the hairy bee, Help me to suck deep joys from all I see.

God of the spider's lace, Let me, from mine own heart, unwind such grace.

God of the lily's cup, Fill me! I hold this empty chalice up.

God of the sea-gull's wing, Bear me above each dark and turbulent thing.

God of the watchful owl, Help me to see at midnight, like this fowl.

God of the antelope, Teach me to scale the highest crags of Hope.

God of the eagle's nest, Oh, let me make my eyrie near thy breast!

God of the burrowing mole, Let cold earth have no terrors for my soul.

God of the chrysalis, Grant that my grave may be a cell of bliss.

God of the butterfly, Help me to vanquish Death, although I die.

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

O JESUS CHRIST, GROW THOU IN ME

O Jesus Christ, grow thou in me, And all things else recede! My heart be daily nearer thee, From sin be daily freed.

Each day let Thy supporting might My weakness still embrace; My darkness vanish in thy light, Thy life my death efface.

In thy bright beams which on me fall Fade every evil thought; That I am nothing, Thou art all, I would be daily taught.

More of thy glory let me see, Thou holy, wise and true, I would thy living image be, In joy and sorrow too.

Fill me with gladness from above, Hold me by strength divine; Lord, let the glow of thy great love Through my whole being shine.

Make this poor self grow less and less; Be Thou my life and aim; Oh, make me daily through thy grace More meet to bear thy name!

Let faith in Thee and in thy might My every motive move; Be thou alone my soul's delight, My passion and my love.

—Henry B. Smith.

DAY BY DAY

Looking upward every day, Sunshine on our faces, Pressing onward every day Toward the heavenly places; Growing every day in awe, For thy name is holy; Learning every day to love With a love more lowly.

Walking every day more close To our Elder Brother; Growing every day more true Unto one another; Every day more gratefully Kindnesses receiving, Every day more readily Injuries forgiving.

Leaving every day behind Something which might hinder; Running swifter every day, Growing purer, kinder— Lord, so pray we every day; Hear us in thy pity, That we enter in at last To the holy city.

—Mary Butler.

Better to have the poet's heart than brain, Feeling than song; but, better far than both, To be a song, a music of God's making. Or but a table on which God's finger of flame, In words harmonious of triumphant verse, That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear That out of darkness he hath called the light. It may be voice to such is after given To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.

—George Macdonald.

FREE FROM SIN

The bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam; But high she shoots through air and light Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to thee! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings!

—Thomas Moore.

A PRAYER

O that mine eyes might closed be To what concerns me not to see; That deafness might possess mine ear To what concerns me not to hear; That truth my tongue might always tie From ever speaking foolishly; That no vain thought might ever rest Or be conceived within my breast; That by each deed and word and thought Glory may to my God be brought. But what are wishes! Lord, mine eye On Thee is fixed; to Thee I cry! Wash, Lord, and purify my heart, And make it clean in every part; And when 'tis clean, Lord, keep it, too, For that is more than I can do.

—Thomas Elwood, A. D. 1639.

THE ALTERED MOTTO

O the bitter shame and sorrow, That a time could ever be When I let the Saviour's pity Plead in vain, and proudly answered, "All of self, and none of Thee!"

Yet He found me; I beheld him Bleeding on the accursed tree, Heard him pray, "Forgive them, Father!" And my wistful heart said faintly, "Some of self and some of Thee."

Day by day his tender mercy, Healing, helping, full and free, Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient, Brought me lower, while I whispered, "Less of self, and more of Thee."

Higher than the highest heaven, Deeper than the deepest sea, Lord, thy love at last hath conquered; Grant me now my supplication— "None of self, and all of Thee."

—Theodore Monod.

INDWELLING

O dwell in me, my Lord, That I in thee may dwell; Fulfill thy tender word, That thy evangels tell; In me Thou, I in thee, By thy sweet courtesy.

But wilt thou my guest be, In this poor heart of mine? Thy guest? Is this for me In that pure heart of thine? In me thou, I in thee, By thy sweet courtesy.

My chamber, Lord, prepare Whither thou deignest come; I may not seek to share The making of thy home; In me thou, I in thee, By thy sweet courtesy.

Thy gracious gifts bestow, Humility and love; O cause my heart to glow By fire sent from above. In me thou, I in thee, By thy sweet courtesy.

—Alexander B. Grosart.

Thy name to me, thy nature grant; This, only this be given; Nothing besides my God I want, Nothing in earth or heaven.

Come, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost And seal me thine abode; Let all I am in thee be lost, Let all I am be God.

—Charles Wesley.

PERFECTION

O how the thought of God attracts, And draws the heart from earth, And sickens it of passing shows And dissipating mirth!

'Tis not enough to save our souls, To shun the eternal fires; The thought of God will rouse the heart To more sublime desires.

God only is the creature's home, Though rough and strait the road; Yet nothing less can satisfy The love that longs for God.

Oh, utter but the name of God Down in your heart of hearts, And see how from the world at once All tempting light departs.

A trusting heart, a yearning eye Can win their way above; If mountains can be moved by faith Is there less power in love?

How little of that road, my soul, How little hast thou gone! Take heart, and let the thought of God Allure thee further on.

Dole not thy duties out to God, But let thy hand be free; Look long at Jesus; his sweet blood— How was it dealt to thee?

The perfect way is hard to flesh; It is not hard to love; If thou wert sick for want of God How swiftly wouldst thou move.

Be docile to thine unseen Guide; Love him as he loves thee; Time and obedience are enough, And thou a saint shalt be.

—Frederick William Faber.

Thou broadenest out with every year Each breadth of life to meet; I scarce can think thou art the same, Thou art so much more sweet. With gentle swiftness lead me on, Dear God, to see thy face; And meanwhile in my narrow heart O make thyself more space!

—Frederick William Faber.

LONGING

Of all the myriad moods of mind That through the soul come thronging, Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, So beautiful, as Longing? The thing we long for, that we are For one transcendent moment, Before the Present poor and bare Can make its sneering comment.

Still, through our paltry stir and strife, Glows down the wished ideal, And longing molds in clay what life Carves on the marble real; To let the new life in, we know, Desire must ope the portal; Perhaps the longing to be so Helps make the soul immortal.

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still Content with merely living; But, would we learn that heart's full scope Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hope, And realize our longing.

Ah! let us hope that to our praise Good God not only reckons The moments when we tread his ways, But when the spirit beckons; That some slight good is also wrought, Beyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought Howe'er we fail in action.

—James Russell Lowell.

MORE HOLINESS

More holiness give me; More strivings within. More patience in suffering, More sorrow for sin. More faith in my Saviour, More sense of his care, More joy in his service, More purpose in prayer.

More gratitude give me, More trust in the Lord, More pride in his glory, More hope in his word. More tears for his sorrows, More pain at his grief, More meekness in trial, More praise for relief.

More purity give me, More strength to o'ercome, More freedom from earth-stains, More longings for home; More fit for the kingdom, More used I would be, More blessed and holy— More, Saviour, like thee.

—Philip Paul Bliss.

"MY SOUL DOTH MAGNIFY THE LORD"

My soul shall be a telescope, Searching the distant bounds of time and space, That somehow I may image, as I grope, Jehovah's power and grace.

My soul a microscope shall be, In all minutest providences keen Jehovah's patient thoughtfulness to see, And read his love between.

My soul shall be a burning-glass That diligence to worship may succeed, That I may catch God's glories as they pass, And focus to a deed.

So, even so, A mote in his creation, even I Seeking alone to do, to feel, to know, The Lord must magnify.

—Amos R. Wells.

Lord, let me not be too content With life in trifling service spent— Make me aspire! When days with petty cares are filled Let me with fleeting thoughts be thrilled Of something higher!

Help me to long for mental grace To struggle with the commonplace I daily find. May little deeds not bring to fruit A crop of little thought to suit A shriveled mind.

I know this earth is not my sphere, For I cannot so narrow me but that I still exceed it.

—Robert Browning.

A SHRINKING PRAYER

Give me, O Lord, a heart of grace, A voice of joy, a smiling face, That I may show, where'er I turn, Thy love within my soul doth burn!

Then life be sweet, and joy be dear, Be in my mind a quiet fear; A patient love of pain and care, An enmity to dark despair.

A tenderness for all that stray, With strength to help them on their way; A cheerfulness, a heavenly mirth, Brightening my steps along the earth.

I ask and shrink, yet shrink and ask; I know thou wilt not set a task Too hard for hands that thou hast made, Too hard for hands that thou canst aid.

So let me dwell all peacefully, Content to live, content to die; Rejoicing now, rejoicing then, Rejoicing evermore. Amen.

—Rosa Mulholland.

THAT I MAY SOAR

Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself; That in my action I may soar as high As I can now discern with this clear eye.

And next in value which thy kindness lends, That I may greatly disappoint my friends, Howe'er they think or hope that it may be, They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith, And my life practise more than my tongue saith; That my low conduct may not show, Nor my relenting lines, That I thy purpose did not know, Or overrated thy designs.

—Henry David Thoreau.

A CRY OF THE SOUL

O God of truth, for whom alone I sigh, Knit thou my heart by strong, sweet cords to thee. I tire of hearing; books my patience try; Untired to thee I cry; Thyself my all shalt be.

Lord, be thou near and cheer my lonely way; With thy sweet peace my aching bosom fill; Scatter my cares and fears; my griefs allay; And be it mine each day To love and please thee still.

My God! Thou hearest me; but clouds obscure Even yet thy perfect radiance, truth divine! O for the stainless skies, the splendors pure, The joys that aye endure When thine own glories shine!

—Pierre Corneille.

A PURPOSE TRUE

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.

There are deep things of God. Push out from shore; Hast thou found much? Give thanks, and look for more. Dost fear the generous Giver to offend? Then know his store of bounty hath no end. He doth not need to be implored or teased; The more we take the better he is pleased.

—Charles Gordon Ames.

BREATHE ON ME

Breathe on me, Breath of God, Fill me with life anew, That I may love what thou dost love, And do what thou wouldst do.

Breathe on me, Breath of God, Until my heart is pure, Until with thee I will one will, To do or to endure.

Breathe on me, Breath of God, Till I am wholly thine; Till all this earthly part of me Glows with thy fire divine.

Breathe on me, Breath of God, So shall I never die, But live with thee the perfect life Of thine eternity.

—Edwin Hatch.

THE COMPARATIVE DEGREE

What weight of woe we owe to thee, Accurst comparative degree! Thy paltry step can never give Access to the superlative; For he who would the wisest be, Strives to make others wise as he, And never yet was man judged best Who would be better than the rest; So does comparison unkind Dwarf and debase the haughty mind.

Make not a man your measuring-rod If you would span the way to God; Heed not our petty "worse" or "less," But fix your eyes on perfectness. Make for the loftiest point in view, And draw your friends along with you.

—Amos R. Wells.

Thy nature be my law, Thy spotless sanctity, And sweetly every moment draw My happy soul to thee.

Soul of my soul remain; Who didst for me fulfill, In me, O Lord, fulfill again Thy heavenly Father's will.

—Charles Wesley.

LEAD ON, O LORD

Jesus still lead on Till our rest be won; And although the way be cheerless, We will follow, calm and fearless; Guide us by thy hand To our Fatherland.

If the way be drear, If the foe be near, Let not faithless fears o'ertake us, Let not faith and hope forsake us; For, through many a foe To our home we go.

When we seek relief From a long-felt grief: When oppressed by new temptations, Lord, increase and perfect patience; Show us that bright shore Where we weep no more.

Jesus, still lead on Till our rest be won; Heavenly Leader, still direct us, Still support, control, protect us, Till we safely stand In our Fatherland.

—Nicolaus Ludwig Zinzendorf.

Give me this day A little work to occupy my mind; A little suffering to sanctify My spirit; and, dear Lord, if thou canst find Some little good that I may do for thee, I shall be glad, for that will comfort me. Mind, spirit, hand—I lift them all to thee.

O make me patient, Lord, Patient in daily cares; Keep me from thoughtless words, That slip out unawares. And help me, Lord, I pray, Still nearer thee to live, And as I journey on, More of thy presence give.

O square thyself for use. A stone that may Fit in the wall is not left in the way.

—From the Persian.

Think, and be careful what thou art within, For there is sin in the desire of sin: Think and be thankful in a different case; For there is grace in the desire of grace.

—George Gordon Byron.

A man's higher being is knowing and seeing; Not having or toiling for more; In the senses and soul is the joy of control, Not in pride and luxurious store.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

Be with me, Lord, where'er my path may lead; Fulfill thy word, supply my every need; Help me to live each day more close to thee. And O, dear Lord, I pray abide with me.

In all I think or speak or do, Whatever way my steps are bent, God shape and keep me strong and true, Courageous, cheerful, and content.

—W. D. Russell.

Make my mortal dreams come true With the work I fain would do: Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

This be my prayer, from dawn to eve, Working between the suns; Lord, make my arm as firm as a knight's My soul as white as a nun's.

Every hour that fleets so slowly has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown and holy, if we set each gem with care.

O for a man to rise in me, That the man that I am May cease to be.

—Alfred Tennyson.



PRAYER

WORSHIP, COMMUNION, DEVOTION

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER

Father of all! in every age, In ev'ry clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood, Who all my sense confined To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind:

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives— T' enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound; Or think thee Lord alone of man When thousand worlds are round;

Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O teach my heart To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has denied Or aught thy wisdom lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe; To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so Since quicken'd by thy breath; O lead me wheresoe'er I go, Through this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot: All else beneath the sun Thou know'st if best bestowed or not; And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar earth, sea, skies! One chorus let all Being raise, All Nature's incense rise!

—Alexander Pope.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER

My God, is any hour so sweet, From blush of morn to evening star, As that which calls me to thy feet: The hour of prayer?

Blest is that tranquil hour of morn, And blest that solemn hour of eve, When, on the wings of prayer upborne, The world I leave.

Then is my strength by thee renewed; Then are my sins by thee forgiven; Then dost thou cheer my solitude With hopes of heaven.

No words can tell what sweet relief Here for my every want I find; What strength for warfare, balm for grief, What peace of mind.

Hushed is each doubt, gone every fear; My spirit seems in heaven to stay; And e'en the penitential tear Is wiped away.

Lord, till I reach that blissful shore, No privilege so dear shall be As thus my inmost soul to pour In prayer to thee.

—Charlotte Elliott.

PETITION

Be not afraid to pray—to pray is right. Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever pray, Though hope be weak or sick with long delay; Pray in the darkness if there be no light.

Far is the time, remote from human sight, When war and discord on the earth shall cease; Yet every prayer for universal peace Avails the blessed time to expedite.

Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of heaven, Though it be what thou canst not hope to see. Pray to be perfect, though material leaven Forbid the spirit so on earth to be; But if for any wish thou darest not pray, Then pray to God to cast that wish away.

—Hartley Coleridge.

SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE

Unanswered yet the prayer your lips have pleaded In agony of heart these many years? Does faith begin to fail? Is hope departing? And think you all in vain those falling tears? Say not the Father hath not heard your prayer; You shall have your desire sometime, somewhere.

Unanswered yet?—though when you first presented This one petition at the Father's throne It seemed you could not wait the time of asking, So urgent was your heart to make it known! Though years have passed since then, do not despair; The Lord will answer you sometime, somewhere.

Unanswered yet? Nay, do not say ungranted; Perhaps your work is not yet wholly done. The work began when first your prayer was uttered, And God will finish what he has begun. If you will keep the incense burning there His glory you shall see sometime, somewhere.

Unanswered yet? Faith cannot be unanswered, Her feet were firmly planted on the Rock; Amid the wildest storms she stands undaunted, Nor quails before the loudest thunder shock. She knows Omnipotence has heard her prayer, And cries, "It shall be done"—sometime, somewhere.

—Miss Ophelia G. Browning.

SECRET PRAYER

Lord, I have shut my door— Shut out life's busy cares and fretting noise, Here in this silence they intrude no more. Speak thou, and heavenly joys Shall fill my heart with music sweet and calm— A holy psalm.

Yes, I have shut my door, Even on all the beauty of thine earth— To its blue ceiling, from its emerald floor, Filled with spring's bloom and mirth; From these, thy works, I turn; thyself I seek; To thee I speak.

And I have shut my door On earthly passion—all its yearning love, Its tender friendships, all the priceless store Of human ties. Above All these my heart aspires, O Heart divine! Stoop thou to mine.

Lord, I have shut my door! Come thou and visit me: I am alone! Come as when doors were shut thou cam'st of yore And visited thine own. My Lord, I kneel with reverence, love, and fear, For thou art here.

—Mary Ellen Atkinson.

WHAT MAN IS THERE OF YOU?

The homely words—how often read! How seldom fully known: "Which father of you, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?"

How oft has bitter tear been shed, And heaved how many a groan, Because thou wouldst not give for bread The thing that was a stone!

How oft the child thou wouldst have fed Thy gift away has thrown; He prayed, thou heardst, and gavest bread— He cried, "It is a stone!"

Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread, Lest I be left to moan, Am I not he, who, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?

—George Macdonald.

DENIAL

I want so many, many things, My wishes on my prayers take wings, And heavenward fly to sue for grace Before the loving Father's face.

But He, well knowing all my need, Kindly rebukes my foolish greed, And, granting not the gift I ask, Sets me instead to do some task—

Some lowly task—for love of him, So lowly, and in light so dim, My sorrowing soul must cease to sing, And only sigh, "'Tis for the King."

And scarcely can my faith repeat Her sad petition at his feet: "These daily tasks Thou giv'st to me, Help, Lord, to do as unto thee!"

Yet while his bidding thus I do— I know not how, or why, 'tis true— My thoughts to sweet contentment glide, And I forget the wish denied.

And so my prayers he hears and heeds, Mindful of all my daily needs; Gracious, most gracious, too, in this— Denying, when I ask amiss.

—Luella Clark.

A BLESSING IN PRAYER

If when I kneel to pray, With eager lips I say: "Lord, give me all the things that I desire— Health, wealth, fame, friends, brave heart, religious fire, The power to sway my fellow men at will, And strength for mighty works to banish ill"— In such a prayer as this The blessing I must miss.

Or if I only dare To raise this fainting prayer: "Thou seest, Lord, that I am poor and weak, And cannot tell what things I ought to seek; I therefore do not ask at all, but still I trust thy bounty all my wants to fill"— My lips shall thus grow dumb, The blessing shall not come.

But if I lowly fall, And thus in faith I call: "Through Christ, O Lord, I pray thee give to me Not what I would, but what seems best to thee Of life, of health, of service, and of strength, Until to thy full joy I come at length"— My prayer shall then avail; The blessing shall not fail.

—Charles F. Richardson.

Teach me, dear Lord, what thou wouldst have me know; Guide me, dear Lord, where thou wouldst have me go; Help me, dear Lord, the precious seed to sow; Bless thou the seed that it may surely grow.

THE TIME FOR PRAYER

When is the time for prayer? With the first beams that light the morning sky, Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare, Lift up thy thoughts on high; Commend thy loved ones to his watchful care: Morn is the time for prayer!

And in the noontide hour, If worn by toil or by sad care oppressed, Then unto God thy spirit's sorrows pour, And he will give thee rest: Thy voice shall reach him through the fields of air: Noon is the time for prayer!

When the bright sun hath set, Whilst yet eve's glowing colors deck the skies, When with the loved, at home, again thou'st met, Then let thy prayers arise For those who in thy joys and sorrows share: Eve is the time for prayer!

And when the stars come forth— When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth To pure bright dreams of heaven— Kneel to thy God; ask strength life's ills to bear: Night is the time for prayer.

When is the time for prayer? In every hour, while life is spared to thee— In crowds or solitude—in joy or care— Thy thoughts should heavenward flee. At home—at morn and eve—with loved ones there, Bend thou the knee in prayer!

NOT A SOUND INVADES THE STILLNESS

Not a sound invades the stillness, Not a form invades the scene, Save the voice of my Beloved, And the person of my King.

And within those heavenly places, Calmly hushed in sweet repose, There I drink, with joy absorbing, All the love thou wouldst disclose.

Wrapt in deep adoring silence, Jesus, Lord, I dare not move, Lest I lose the smallest saying Meant to catch the ear of love.

Rest, then, O my soul, contented: Thou hast reached thy happy place In the bosom of thy Saviour, Gazing up in his dear face.

FORMAL PRAYER

I often say my prayers, But do I ever pray; And do the wishes of my heart Go with the words I say?

I may as well kneel down And worship gods of stone, As offer to the living God A prayer of words alone.

For words without the heart The Lord will never hear: Nor will he to those lips attend Whose prayers are not sincere.

—John Burton.

BLESSINGS OF PRAYER

What various hindrances we meet In coming to a mercy-seat! Yet who that knows the worth of prayer But wishes to be often there!

Prayer makes the darkened cloud withdraw; Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw; Gives exercise to faith and love; Brings every blessing from above.

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer keeps the Christian's armor bright; And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees.

Were half the breath that's vainly spent To heaven in supplication sent, Our cheerful song would oftener be "Hear what the Lord has done for me."

—William Cowper.

WHAT IS PRAYER?

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed; The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice And cry, "Behold, he prays!"

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air, His watchword at the gates of death; He enters heaven with prayer.

O Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way; The path of prayer thyself hast trod: Lord, teach us how to pray!

—James Montgomery.

SPIRITUAL DEVOTION

The woman singeth at her spinning wheel A pleasant chant, ballad, or baracolle; She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel, With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian Church, that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk Thus, swift and steadfast; thus, intent and strong; While, thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune and prove our work The better for the sweetness of our song.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

PRAYER OF DEEDS

The deed ye do is the prayer ye pray; "Lead us into temptation, Lord; Withhold the bread from our babes this day; To evil we turn us, give evil's reward!"

Over to-day the to-morrow bends With an answer for each acted prayer; And woe to him who makes not friends With the pale hereafter hovering there.

—George S. Burleigh.

SUNDAY

Not a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould, Where I must creep and in the dark and cold Offer some awful incense at a shrine That hath no more divine Than that 'tis far from life, and stern, and old;

But a bright hilltop, in the breezy air Full of the morning freshness, high and clear, Where I may climb and drink the pure new day And see where winds away The path that God would send me, shining fair.

—Edward Rowland Sill.

PRAYER

When prayer delights thee least, then learn to say, Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st pray:

Crooked and warped I am, and I would fain Straighten myself by thy right line again.

Oh, come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits; Pierce, genial showers, down to my parched roots.

My well is bitter, cast therein the tree, That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be.

Say, what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed? The mighty utterance of a mighty need.

The man is praying who doth press with might Out of his darkness into God's own light.

White heat the iron in the furnace won, Withdrawn from thence 'twas cold and hard anon.

Flowers, from their stalk divided, presently Droop, fall, and wither in the gazer's eye.

The greenest leaf, divided from its stem, To speedy withering doth itself condemn.

The largest river, from its fountain-head Cut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed.

All things that live from God their sustenance wait, And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.

All skirts extended of thy mantle hold When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

MEANING OF PRAYER

One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread— To have a secret spot That separates my soul from thee, And yet to know it not.

Prayer was not meant for luxury, Or selfish pastime sweet; It is the prostrate creature's place At his Creator's feet.

But if this waiting long hath come A present from on high, Teach me to find the hidden wealth That in its depths may lie.

So in the darkness I can learn To tremble and adore; To sound my own vile nothingness, And thus to love thee more.