—Frederick William Faber.

TALKING WITH GOD

To stretch my hand and touch Him Though he be far away; To raise my eyes and see him Through darkness as through day; To lift my voice and call him— This is to pray!

To feel a hand extended By One who standeth near; To view the love that shineth In eyes serene and clear; To know that he is calling— This is to hear!

—Samuel W. Duffield.

MY PRAYER

Being perplexed, I say, "Lord, make it right! Night is as day to thee, Darkness is light. I am afraid to touch Things that involve so much; My trembling hand may shake— My skillful hand may break; Thine can make no mistake."

Being in doubt, I say, "Lord, make it plain! Which is the true, safe way? Which would be vain? I am not wise to know, Nor sure of foot to go; My blind eyes cannot see What is so clear to thee. Lord, make it clear to me."

THE SOURCE OF POWER

There is an eye that never sleeps Beneath the wing of night; There is an ear that never shuts When sink the beams of light.

There is an arm that never tires When human strength gives way; There is a love that never fails When earthly loves decay.

That eye is fixed on seraph throngs; That arm upholds the sky; That ear is filled with angel songs, That love is throned on high.

But there's a power which man can wield When mortal aid is vain, That eye, that arm, that love to reach, That listening ear to gain.

That power is prayer, which soars on high, Through Jesus, to the throne, And moves the hand which moves the world, To bring salvation down.

—James Cowden Wallace.

DIFFERENT PRAYERS

Three doors there are in the temple Where men go up to pray, And they that wait at the outer gate May enter by either way.

There are some that pray by asking; They lie on the Master's breast, And, shunning the strife of the lower life, They utter their cry for rest.

There are some that pray by seeking; They doubt where their reason fails; But their mind's despair is the ancient prayer To touch the print of the nails.

There are some that pray by knocking; They put their strength to the wheel For they have not time for thoughts sublime; They can only act what they feel.

Father, give each his answer, Each in his kindred way; Adapt thy light to his form of night And grant him his needed day.

—William Watson.

TRUE PRAYER

I.

It is not prayer, This clamor of our eager wants That fills the air With wearying, selfish plaints.

It is not faith To boldly count all gifts as ours— The pride that saith, "For me his wealth he ever showers."

It is not praise To call to mind our happier lot, And boast bright days, God-favored, with all else forgot.

II.

It is true prayer To seek the giver more than gift God's life to share And love—for this our cry to lift.

It is true faith To simply trust his loving will, Whiche'er he saith— "Thy lot be glad" or "ill."

It is true praise To bless alike the bright and dark; To sing, all days Alike, with nightingale and lark.

—James W. White.

THE POWER OF PRAYER

Lord, what a change within us one short hour Spent in thy presence will prevail to make; What heavy burdens from our bosoms take; What parched grounds refresh as with a shower! We kneel—and all about us seems to lower; We rise—and all, the distant and the near, Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear. We kneel, how weak! we rise, how full of power! Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, Or others, that we are not always strong; That we are ever overborne with care, Anxious and troubled, when with us is prayer, And joy and strength and courage are with thee?

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Asked and unasked, thy heavenly gifts unfold, And evil, though we ask it, Lord, withhold.

—Homer, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

MARY OF BETHANY

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits. And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears. Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs?

—Alfred Tennyson.

PRAYER ITS OWN ANSWER

"Allah, Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through; Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like honey grew.

But at morning came the Tempter; said, "Call louder, child of pain! See if Allah ever hear, or answer 'Here am I' again."

Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went; To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, sent.

Then before him stands Elias; says "My child! why thus dismayed? Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer afraid?"

"Ah!" he cried, "I've called so often; never heard the 'Here am I'; And I thought, God will not pity, will not turn on me his eye."

Then the grave Elias answered, "God said, 'Rise, Elias, go, Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf of woe.

"'Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry; That his prayer, "Come, gracious Allah," is my answer, "Here am I"'.

"Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled; And in every 'O my Father!' slumbers deep a 'Here, my child!'"

—Jelal-ed-Deen, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

THE CONTENTS OF PIETY

"Allah!" was all night long the cry of one oppressed with care, Till softened was his heart, and sweet became his lips with prayer. Then near the subtle tempter stole, and spake: "Fond babbler, cease! For not one 'Here am I' has God e'er sent to give thee peace." With sorrow sank the suppliant's soul and all his senses fled. But lo! at midnight, the good angel, Chiser, came, and said: "What ails thee now, my child, and why art thou afraid to pray? And why thy former love dost thou repent? declare and say." "Ah!" cries he, "never once spake God to me, 'Here am I, son.' Cast off methinks I am, and warned far from his gracious throne." To whom the angel answered, "Hear the word from God I bear: 'Go tell,' he said, 'yon mourner, sunk in sorrow and despair, Each "Lord, appear!" thy lips pronounce contains my "Here am I"; A special messenger I send beneath thine every sigh; Thy love is but a guerdon of the love I bear to thee. And sleeping in thy "Come, O Lord!" there lies "Here, son!" from me.'"

—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us He made and loveth all.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

ADORATION

I love my God, but with no love of mine, For I have none to give; I love thee, Lord, but all the love is thine For by thy love I live. I am as nothing, and rejoice to be Emptied and lost and swallowed up in thee.

Thou, Lord, alone art all thy children need, And there is none beside; From thee the streams of blessedness proceed, In thee the blest abide— Fountain of life and all-abounding grace, Our source, our center, and our dwelling place.

—Madame Guyon.

WALKING WITH GOD

O Master, let me walk with thee In lowly paths of service free; Tell me thy secret; help me bear The strain of toil, the fret of care.

Help me the slow of heart to move By some clear, winning word of love; Teach me the wayward feet to stay, And guide them in the homeward way.

Teach me thy patience! still with Thee In closer, dearer company: In work that keeps faith sweet and strong, In trust that triumphs over wrong.

In hope that sends a shining ray Far down the future's broadening way; In peace that only thou canst give, With thee, O Master, let me live.

—Washington Gladden.

There was a man who prayed For wisdom that he might Sway men from sinful ways And lead them into light. Each night he knelt and asked the Lord To let him guide the sinful horde. And every day he rose again, To idly drift along, One of the many common men Who form the common throng.

GRANTED OR DENIED

To long with all our longing powers, And have the wish denied; To urge and strain our force in vain Against the unresting tide Of fate and circumstance, which still Baffles and beats and thwarts our will;

To reach the goal toward which we strove All the long way and hard; To win the prize which, to our eyes, Seemed life's one best reward— Love's rose, Fame's laurel, olived Peace, The gold-fruit of Hesperides—

And then to find the prize all vain, The joys all empty made— To taste the sting in each sweet thing, To watch Love's roses fade, The fruit to ashes turn, the gold To worthless dross within our hold!

Now which has most of grief and pain, Which is the worse to bear: The joy we crave and never have, Or the curse of the granted prayer? The baffled wish or the bitter rue— Could our hearts choose between the two?

O will of God, thou blessed will! Which, like a balmed air, The breath of souls about us rolls, Touching us everywhere, Imparting, like a soft caress, Healing, and help, and tenderness,

O will of God, be thou our will! Then, come or joy or pain, Made one with thee it cannot be That we shall wish in vain, And, whether granted or denied, Our hearts shall be all satisfied.

—Susan Coolidge.

OUT OF TOUCH

Only a smile, yes, only a smile That a woman o'erburdened with grief Expected from you; 'twould have given relief, For her heart ached sore the while; But weary and cheerless she went away, Because, as it happened, that very day You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a word, yes, only a word, That the Spirit's small voice whispered "Speak"; But the worker passed onward unblessed and weak Whom you were meant to have stirred To courage, devotion, and love anew, Because when the message came to you You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a note, yes, only a note To a friend in a distant land. The Spirit said "Write," but then you had planned Some different work, and you thought It mattered little. You did not know 'Twould have saved a soul from sin and woe; You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a song, yes, only a song That the Spirit said "Sing to-night; Thy voice is thy Master's by purchased right"; But you thought, "'Mid this motley throng I care not to sing of the city of gold"— And the heart that your words might have reached grew cold; You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a day, yes, only a day! But oh, can you guess, my friend, Where the influence reaches, and where it will end Of the hours that you frittered away? The Master's command is "Abide in me" And fruitless and vain will your service be If "out of touch" with your Lord.

—Jean H. Watson.

Prayer is Innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

We may question with wand of science, Explain, decide, and discuss; But only in meditation The Mystery speaks to us.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

THE VALLEY OF SILENCE

I walk down the Valley of Silence, Down the dim, voiceless valley alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me—save God's and my own! And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown.

Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human and sin.

And still did I pine for the perfect, And still found the false with the true; I sought 'mid the human for heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of the blue; And I wept when the clouds of the world veiled Even that glimpse from my view.

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human, And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar, And heard a Voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken.

Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 'Tis my trysting place with the Divine. When I fell at the feet of the Holy, And about me a voice said, "Be mine," There arose from the depths of my spirit An echo: "My heart shall be thine."

Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep, and I dream, and I pray; But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from censer, Ascendeth to God night and day.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence, I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim valley Till each finds a word for a wing, That to men, like the doves of the deluge The message of peace they may bring.

But far out on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the valley Too lofty for language to reach.

And I have seen thoughts in the valley— Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces— Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; They pass through the valley like virgins Too pure for the touch of a word.

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care? It lieth afar, between mountains, And God and his angels are there; And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow, The other, the bright Mount of Prayer.

—Abram Joseph Ryan.

HELP THOU MY UNBELIEF

Because I seek thee not O seek thou me! Because my lips are dumb O hear the cry I do not utter as thou passest by, And from my lifelong bondage set me free! Because, content, I perish far from thee, O seize me, snatch me from my fate and try My soul in thy consuming fire! Draw nigh And let me, blinded, thy salvation see.

If I were pouring at thy feet my tears, If I were clamoring to see thy face, I should not need thee, Lord, as now I need, Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears, Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place. Because I seek not, pray not, give thou heed.

PHARISEE AND PUBLICAN

Two went to pray? O, rather say One went to brag, the other to pray; One stands up close and treads on high, Where the other dares not lend his eye; One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God.

—Richard Crashaw.

A MOMENT IN THE MORNING

A moment in the morning, ere the cares of the day begin, Ere the heart's wide door is open for the world to enter in, Ah, then, alone with Jesus, in the silence of the morn, In heavenly sweet communion, let your duty-day be born. In the quietude that blesses with a prelude of repose Let your soul be smoothed and softened, as the dew revives the rose.

A moment in the morning take your Bible in your hand, And catch a glimpse of glory from the peaceful promised land: It will linger still before you when you seek the busy mart, And like flowers of hope will blossom into beauty in your heart. The precious words, like jewels, will glisten all the day With a rare effulgent glory that will brighten all the way; When comes a sore temptation, and your feet are near a snare, You may count them like a rosary and make each one a prayer.

A moment in the morning—a moment, if no more— Is better than an hour when the trying day is o'er. 'Tis the gentle dew from heaven, the manna for the day; If you fail to gather early—alas! it melts away. So, in the blush of morning, take the offered hand of love, And walk in heaven's pathway and the peacefulness thereof.

—Arthur Lewis Tubbs.

AN INVITATION TO PRAYER

Come to the morning prayer, Come, let us kneel and pray; Prayer is the Christian pilgrim's staff To walk with God all day.

At noon, beneath the Rock Of Ages rest and pray; Sweet is the shadow from the heat When the sun smites by day.

At eve, shut to the door, Round the home altar pray; And finding there "the house of God" At "heaven's gate" close the day.

When midnight seals our eyes, Let each in spirit say, "I sleep, but my heart waketh, Lord, With thee to watch and pray."

—James Montgomery.

SELFISH PRAYER

How we, poor players on life's little stage, Thrust blindly at each other in our rage, Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to pray To God to keep us on our selfish way.

We think to move him with our prayer and praise To serve our needs, as in the old Greek days Their gods came down and mingled in the fight With mightier arms the flying foe to smite.

The laughter of those gods pealed down to man; For heaven was but earth's upper story then, Where goddesses about an apple strove And the high gods fell humanly in love.

We own a God whose presence fills the sky; Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by; Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one, The sons of man, and calls them each his son.

—Louise Chandler Moulton.

To make rough places plain, and crooked straight; To help the weak; to envy not the strong; To make the earth a sweeter dwelling place, In little ways, or if we may, in great, And in the world to help the heavenly song, We pray, Lord Jesus, grant to us thy grace!

THE TWO RELIGIONS

A woman sat by a hearthside place Reading a book, with a pleasant face, Till a child came up, with a childish frown, And pushed the book, saying, "Put it down." Then the mother, slapping his curly head, Said, "Troublesome child, go off to bed; A great deal of Christ's life I must know To train you up as a child should go." And the child went off to bed to cry, And denounce religion—by and by.

Another woman bent over a book With a smile of joy and an intent look, Till a child came up and jogged her knee, And said of the book, "Put it down—take me." Then the mother sighed as she stroked his head, Saying softly, "I never shall get it read: But I'll try by loving to learn His will, And his love into my child instill." That child went to bed without a sigh, And will love religion—by and by.

A LIFE HID WITH CHRIST

I have a life with Christ to live; But ere I live it must I wait Till learning can clear answer give Of this or that book's date?

I have a life in Christ to live, I have a death in Christ to die; And must I wait till science give All doubts a full reply?

Nay, rather, while the sea of doubt Is raging wildly round about, Questioning of life and death and sin, Let me but creep within Thy fold, O Christ, and at thy feet Take but the lowest seat, And hear thine awful voice repeat In gentlest accents, heavenly sweet, "Come unto me and rest; Believe me, and be blest."

—John Campbell Shairp.

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.

—Dr. Samuel Johnson.

PRAY ALWAYS

Go when the morning shineth, Go when the noon is bright, Go when the eve declineth, Go in the hush of night; Go with pure mind and feeling, Fling earthly thoughts away, And, in thy chamber kneeling, Do thou in secret pray.

Remember all who love thee, All who are loved by thee; Pray, too, for those who hate thee, If any such there be. Then for thyself in meekness A blessing humbly claim, And link with thy petition The great Redeemer's name.

Or, if 'tis e'er denied thee In solitude to pray, Should holy thoughts come o'er thee When friends are round thy way, E'en then the silent breathing Of thy spirit, raised above, May reach His throne of glory Who is mercy, truth and love.

Oh! not a joy or blessing With this can we compare: The power that he hath given us To pour our hearts in prayer. Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness Before His footstool fall, And remember in thy gladness His grace who gave thee all.

—Jane C. Simpson.

More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats, That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer, Both for themselves and those who call them friend. For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

—Alfred Tennyson.

ENOCH

He walked with God, by faith, in solitude, At early dawn or tranquil eventide; In some lone leafy place he would abide Till his whole being was with God imbued. He walked with God amid the multitude; No threats or smiles could his firm soul divide From that beloved presence at his side Whose still small voice silenced earth's noises rude. Boldly abroad to men he testified How "the Lord cometh" and the judgment brings; Gently at home he trained his "sons and daughters"; Till, praying, a bright chariot he espied Sent to translate him, as on angels' wings, To walk with God beside heaven's "living waters."

—R. Wilton.

A WORKER'S PRAYER

Lord, speak to me, that I may speak In living echoes of thy tone; As thou hast sought, so let me seek Thy erring children, lost and lone.

Oh, teach me, Lord, that I may teach The precious things thou dost impart; And wing my words that they may reach The hidden depths of many a heart.

Oh, give thine own sweet rest to me, That I may speak with soothing power A word in season, as from thee, To weary ones in needful hour.

Oh, use me, Lord, use even me, Just as thou wilt, and when and where; Until thy blessed face I see, Thy rest, thy joy, thy glory share.

God answers prayer— Answers always, everywhere, I may cast my anxious care, Burdens I could never bear, On the God who heareth prayer.

SUBMISSION AND REST

The camel, at the close of day Kneels down upon the sandy plain To have his burden lifted off And rest again.

My soul, thou too should to thy knees When daylight draweth to a close, And let thy Master lift the load And grant repose.

Else how couldst thou to-morrow meet, With all to-morrow's work to do, If thou thy burden all the night Dost carry through?

The camel kneels at break of day To have his guide replace his load; Then rises up anew to take The desert road.

So thou shouldst kneel at morning's dawn That God may give thee daily care; Assured that he no load too great Will make thee bear.

TAKE TIME TO BE HOLY

Take time to be holy; Speak oft with thy Lord; Abide in him always, And feed on his word; Make friends of God's children, Help those who are weak, Forgetting in nothing His blessing to seek.

Take time to be holy; The world rushes on; Spend much time in secret With Jesus alone; By looking at Jesus Like him thou shalt be; Thy friends in thy conduct His likeness shall see.

Take time to be holy; Let him be thy Guide, And run not before him Whatever betide; In joy or in sorrow Still follow thy Lord, And, looking to Jesus, Still trust in his word.

Take time to be holy; Be calm in thy soul; Each thought and each motive Beneath his control; Thus led by his Spirit To fountains of love, Thou soon shalt be fitted For service above.

—W. D. Longstaff.

PRAYER FOR STRENGTH

Father, before thy footstool kneeling, Once more my heart goes up to thee, For aid, for strength, to thee appealing, Thou who alone canst succor me.

Hear me! for heart and flesh are failing, My spirit yielding in the strife; And anguish wild as unavailing Sweeps in a flood across my life.

Help me to stem the tide of sorrow; Help me to bear thy chastening rod; Give me endurance; let me borrow Strength from thy promise, O my God!

Not mine the grief which words may lighten; Not mine the tears of common woes; The pang with which my heart-strings tighten Only the All-seeing One may know.

And I am weak, my feeble spirit Shrinks from life's task in wild dismay; Yet not that thou that task wouldst spare it, My Father, do I dare to pray.

Into my soul thy might infusing, Strengthening my spirit by thine own; Help me, all other aid refusing, To cling to thee, and thee alone.

And O in my exceeding weakness Make thy strength perfect; thou art strong: Aid me to do thy will with meekness, Thou to whom all my powers belong.

O let me feel that thou art near me; Close to thy side, I shall not fear; Hear me, O Strength of Israel, hear me, Sustain and aid! in mercy hear.

LIGHT

Lord, send thy light, Not only in the darkest night, But in the shadowy, dim twilight, Wherein my strained and aching sight Can scarce distinguish wrong from right, Then send thy light.

Teach me to pray. Not only in the morning gray, Or when the moonbeam's silver ray Falls on me, but at high noonday, When pleasure beckons me away, Teach me to pray.

—Constance Milman.

OUR BURDEN BEARER

The little sharp vexations And the briars that cut the feet, Why not take all to the Helper Who has never failed us yet? Tell him about the heartache, And tell him the longings too, Tell him the baffled purpose When we scarce know what to do. Then, leaving all our weakness With the One divinely strong, Forget that we bore the burden And carry away the song.

—Phillips Brooks.

My proud foe at my hands to take no boon will choose. Thy prayers are that one gift which he cannot refuse.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

ANSWER TO PRAYER

Man's plea to man is, that he nevermore Will beg, and that he never begged before; Man's plea to God is, that he did obtain A former suit, and therefore sues again. How good a God we serve, that, when we sue, Makes his old gifts examples of his new.

—Francis Quarles.

TALHAIRN'S PRAYER

Grant me, O God, thy merciful protection; And, in protection, give me strength, I pray; And, in my strength, O grant me wise discretion; And, in discretion, make me ever just; And, with my justice, may I mingle love, And, with my love, O God, the love of thee; And, with the love of thee, the love of all.

—From the Welsh.

O sad estate Of human wretchedness! so weak is man, So ignorant and blind, that did not God Sometimes withhold in mercy what we ask, We should be ruined at our own request.

—Hannah More.

Why win we not at once what we in prayer require? That we may learn great things as greatly to desire.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.



JOY

PRAISE, CHEERFULNESS, HAPPINESS

THE SECRET OF A HAPPY DAY

Just to let thy Father do What he will; Just to know that he is true And be still. Just to follow hour by hour As He leadeth; Just to draw the moment's power As it needeth. Just to trust Him, this is all! Then the day will surely be Peaceful, whatsoe'er befall, Bright and blessed, calm and free.

Just to let Him speak to thee Through his word, Watching that his voice may be Clearly heard. Just to tell Him every thing As it rises, And at once to him to bring All surprises. Just to listen, and to stay Where you cannot miss His voice, This is all! and thus to-day, Communing, you shall rejoice.

Just to ask Him what to do All the day, And to make you quick and true To obey. Just to know the needed grace He bestoweth, Every bar of time and place Overfloweth. Just to take thy orders straight From the Master's own command. Blessed day! when thus we wait Always at our Sovereign's hand.

Just to recollect his love, Always true; Always shining from above, Always new. Just to recognize its light, All-enfolding; Just to claim its present might, All-upholding. Just to know it as thine own, That no power can take away; Is not this enough alone For the gladness of the day?

Just to trust, and yet to ask Guidance still; Take the training or the task As He will. Just to take the joy or pain As He lends it; Just to take the loss or gain As he sends it He who formed thee for his praise Will not miss the gracious aim; So to-day, and all thy days, Shall be molded for the same.

Just to leave in His dear hand Little things; All we cannot understand, All that stings. Just to let Him take the care Sorely pressing, Finding all we let him bear Changed to blessing. This is all! and yet the way Marked by Him who loves thee best; Secret of a happy day, Secret of his promised rest.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

GOD MEANS US TO BE HAPPY

God means us to be happy; He fills the short-lived years With loving, tender mercies— With smiles as well as tears. Flowers blossom by the pathway, Or, withering, they shed Their sweetest fragrance over The bosoms of our dead.

God filled the earth with beauty; He touched the hills with light; He crowned the waving forest With living verdure bright; He taught the bird its carol, He gave the wind its voice, And to the smallest insect Its moment to rejoice.

What life hath not its blessing? Who hath not songs to sing, Or grateful words to utter, Or wealth of love to bring? Tried in affliction's furnace The gold becomes more pure— So strong doth sorrow make us, So patient to endure.

No way is dark and dreary If God be with us there; No danger can befall us When sheltered by his care. Why should our eyes be blinded To all earth's glorious bloom? Why sit we in the shadow That falls upon the tomb?

Look up and catch the sunbeams! See how the day doth dawn! Gather the scented roses That grow beside the thorn! God's pitying love doth seek us; He leads us to his rest; And from a thousand pathways He chooses what is best.

THE PICTURE OF A HAPPY MAN

How blest is he, though ever crossed, That can all crosses blessings make; That finds himself ere he be lost, And lose that found for virtue's sake.

Yea, blest is he, in life and death, That fears not death nor loves this life; That sets his will his wit beneath; And hath continual peace in strife.

That naught observes but what preserves His mind and body from offense; That neither courts nor seasons serves, And learns without experience.

That loves his body for his soul, Soul for his mind, his mind for God, God for himself, and doth control Content, if it with him be odd.

That rests in action, acting naught But what is good in deed and show; That seeks but God within his thought, And thinks but God to love and know.

That lives too low for envy's looks, And yet too high for loathed contempt; That makes his friends good men and books And naught without them doth attempt.

That ever lives a light to all, Though oft obscured like the sun; And, though his fortunes be but small, Yet Fortune doth not seek nor shun.

That never looks but grace to find, Nor seeks for knowledge to be known; That makes a kingdom of his mind, Wherein, with God, he reigns alone.

This man is great with little state, Lord of the world epitomized, Who with staid front outfaceth Fate And, being empty, is sufficed— Or is sufficed with little, since (at least) He makes his conscience a continual feast.

—John Davies, of Hereford.

THANKS FOR PAIN

My God, I thank thee who hast made The earth so bright; So full of splendor and of joy, Beauty and light; So many glorious things are here, Noble and right.

I thank thee, too, that thou hast made Joy to abound; So many gentle thoughts and deeds Circling us round; That in the darkest spot of earth Some love is found.

I thank thee more that all our joy Is touched with pain; That shadows fall on brightest hours; That thorns remain; So that earth's bliss may be our guide And not our chain.

I thank thee, Lord, that thou hast kept The best in store; We have enough, yet not too much, To long for more; A yearning for a deeper peace Not known before.

I thank thee, Lord, that here our souls Though amply blest, Can never find, although they seek, A perfect rest; Nor ever shall until they lean On Jesus' breast.

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

THE RIDICULOUS OPTIMIST

There was once a man who smiled Because the day was bright, Because he slept at night, Because God gave him sight To gaze upon his child; Because his little one, Could leap and laugh and run; Because the distant sun Smiled on the earth he smiled.

He smiled because the sky Was high above his head, Because the rose was red, Because the past was dead! He never wondered why The Lord had blundered so That all things have to go The wrong way, here below The overarching sky.

He toiled, and still was glad Because the air was free, Because he loved, and she That claimed his love and he Shared all the joys they had! Because the grasses grew, Because the sweet winds blew, Because that he could hew And hammer, he was glad.

Because he lived he smiled, And did not look ahead With bitterness or dread, But nightly sought his bed As calmly as a child. And people called him mad For being always glad With such things as he had, And shook their heads and smiled.

—Samuel Ellsworth Kiser.

The soul contains a window where It may receive the sun and air, But some with self the window cloy, And shut out all the light and joy.

—Nixon Waterman.

PRAISE

O Thou, whose bounty fills my cup With every blessing meet! I give thee thanks for every drop— The bitter and the sweet.

I praise Thee for the desert road, And for the riverside; For all thy goodness hath bestowed, And all thy grace denied.

I thank Thee for both smile and frown, And for the gain and loss; I praise thee for the future crown And for the present cross.

I thank Thee for the wing of love Which stirred my worldly nest; And for the stormy clouds which drove Me, trembling, to thy breast.

I bless Thee for the glad increase, And for the waning joy; And for this strange, this settled peace, Which nothing can destroy.

—Jane Crewdson.

THANKSGIVING

Lord, for the erring thought Not into evil wrought, Lord, for the wicked will, Betrayed and baffled still, For the heart from itself kept, Our thanksgiving accept.

For the ignorant hopes that were Broken to our blind prayer; For pain, death, sorrow, sent Unto our chastisement; For all loss of seeming good, Quicken our gratitude.

—William Dean Howells.

RING, HAPPY BELLS

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly-dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

—Alfred Tennyson.

THE CLEAR VISION

Break forth, my lips, in praise, and own The wiser love severely kind; Since, richer for its chastening grown, I see, whereas I once was blind. The world, O Father, hath not wronged With loss the life by thee prolonged; But still, with every added year, More beautiful thy works appear.

As thou hast made thy world without, Make thou more fair my world within; Shine through its lingering clouds of doubt; Rebuke its haunting shapes of sin; Fill, brief or long, my granted span Of life with love to thee and man; Strike when thou wilt the hour of rest. But let my last days be my best.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Then let us smile when skies are gray, And laugh at stormy weather! And sing life's lonesome times away; So—worry and the dreariest day Will find an end together!

Paul and Silas in their prison Sang of Christ the Lord arisen; And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon gates at night.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

SCATTER SUNSHINE

In a world where sorrow ever will be known, Where are found the needy, and the sad and lone; How much joy and comfort we can all bestow If we scatter sunshine everywhere we go.

Slightest actions often meet the sorest needs, For the world wants daily little kindly deeds; Oh, what care and sorrow we may help remove, With our songs and courage, sympathy and love.

When the days are gloomy, sing some happy song, Meet the world's repining with a courage strong; Go, with faith undaunted, through the ills of life, Scatter smiles and sunshine o'er its toil and strife.

—Lanta Wilson Smith.

SOWING JOY

I met a child, and kissed it; who shall say I stole a joy in which I had no part? The happy creature from that very day Hath felt the more his little human heart. Now when I pass he runs away and smiles, And tries to seem afraid with pretty wiles. I am a happier and a richer man, Since I have sown this new joy in the earth; 'Tis no small thing for us to reap stray mirth In every sunny wayside where we can. It is a joy to me to be a joy Which may in the most lowly heart take root; And it is gladness to that little boy To look out for me at the mountain foot.

—Frederick William Faber.

Sow thou sorrow and thou shalt reap it; Sow thou joy and thou shalt keep it.

—Richard Watson Gilder.

A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY

(Written in May, 1863, when cotton came to Lancashire, enabling the mills to open after being long closed. The suffering, grateful women sang the Doxology.)

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow." Praise Him who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes—the Lord who gives— O praise him, all that dies, and lives.

He opens and he shuts his hand, But why, we cannot understand. Pours and dries up his mercies' flood, And yet is still All-perfect Good.

We fathom not the mighty plan, The mystery of God and man; We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb.

And when, the tempest passing by, He gleams out, sun-like, through our sky, We look up and, through black clouds riven, We recognize the smile of Heaven.

Ours is no wisdom of the wise. We have no deep philosophies; Childlike we take both kiss and rod, For he who loveth knoweth God.

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS

Through night to light! And though to mortal eyes Creation's face a pall of horror wear, Good cheer! good cheer! the gloom of midnight flies; Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair.

Through storm to calm! And though his thunder car The rumbling tempest drive through earth and sky, Good cheer! good cheer! The elemental war Tells that the blessed healing hour is nigh.

Through frost to spring! And though the biting blast Of Eurus stiffen nature's juicy veins, Good cheer! good cheer! When winter's wrath is past, Soft-murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er the plains.

Through strife to peace! And though with bristling front A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, Good cheer! good cheer! brave thou the battle's brunt, For the peace-march and song of victory.

Through toil to sleep! And though the sultry noon With heavy drooping wing oppress thee now, Good cheer! good cheer! the cool of evening soon Shall lull to sweet repose thy weary brow.

Through cross to crown! And though thy spirit's life Trials untold assail with giant strength, Good cheer! good cheer! soon ends the bitter strife, And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length.

Through woe to joy! And though at morn thou weep, And though the midnight find thee weeping still, Good cheer! good cheer! the Shepherd loves his sheep; Resign thee to the watchful Father's will.

—Rosegarten, tr. by Charles Timothy Brooks.

Talk Happiness. The world is sad enough Without your woes. No path is wholly rough; Look for the places that are smooth and clear, And speak of those to rest the weary ear Of earth, so hurt by one continuous strain Of human discontent and grief and pain.

SERVE GOD AND BE CHEERFUL

Serve God and be cheerful. Make brighter The brightness that falls to thy lot; The rare, or the daily sent, blessing Profane not with gloom or with doubt.

Serve God and be cheerful. Each sorrow Is—with thy will in God's—for the best. O'er the cloud hangs the rainbow. To-morrow Will see the blue sky in the west.

Serve God and be cheerful. Look upward! God's countenance scatters the gloom; And the soft summer light of his heaven Shines over the cross and the tomb.

Serve God and be cheerful. The wrinkles Of age we may take with a smile; But the wrinkles of faithless foreboding Are the crow's-feet of Beelzebub's guile.

Serve God and be cheerful. The winter Rolls round to the beautiful spring. And o'er the green grave of the snowdrift The nest-building robins will sing.

Serve God and be cheerful. Live nobly, Do right, and do good. Make the best Of the gifts and the work put before you, And to God without fear leave the rest.

—William Newell.

BRING EVERY BURDEN

Be trustful, be steadfast, whatever betide thee, Only one thing do thou ask of the Lord— Grace to go forward wherever he guide thee, Simply believing the truth of his word.

Earthliness, coldness, unthankful behavior— Ah! thou mayst sorrow, but do not despair. Even this grief thou mayst bring to thy Saviour, Cast upon him this burden of care!

Bring all thy hardness—His power can subdue it, How full is the promise! The blessing how free: "Whatsoever ye ask in my name, I will do it; Abide in my love and be joyful in me."

THY LOVING KINDNESS

Not always the path is easy; There are thickets hung with gloom, There are rough and stony places Where never the roses bloom. But oft, when the way is hardest, I am conscious of One at my side Whose hands and whose feet are wounded, And I'm happy and safe with my Guide.

Better than friends and kindred, Better than love and rest, Dearer than hope and triumph, Is the name I wear on my breast. I feel my way through the shadows With a confident heart and brave; I shall live in the light beyond them; I shall conquer death and the grave.

Often when tried and tempted, Often, ashamed of sin— That, strong as an armed invader, Has made wreck of the peace within— That wonderful loving-kindness, Patient and full and free, Has stooped for my consolation; Has brought a blessing to me.

Therefore my lips shall praise thee, Therefore, let come what may, To the height of a solemn gladness My song shall arise to-day. Not on the drooping willow Shall I hang my harp in the land, When the Lord himself has cheered me By the touch of his pierced hand.

—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

To try each day his will to know; To tread the way his will may show; To live for him who gave me life; To strive for him who suffered strife And sacrifice through death for me— Let this my joy, my portion be.

THANKS

I thank thee, Lord, for mine unanswered prayers, Unanswered save thy quiet, kindly "Nay"; Yet it seemed hard among my heavy cares— That bitter day.

I wanted joy; but Thou didst know for me That sorrow was the gift I needed most, And in its mystic depths I learned to see The Holy Ghost.

I wanted health; but thou didst bid me sound The secret treasuries of pain, And in the moans and groans my heart oft found Thy Christ again.

I wanted wealth; 'twas not the better part; There is a wealth with poverty oft given. And thou didst teach me of the gold of heart— Best gift of heaven.

I thank thee, Lord, for these unanswered prayers, And for thy word, the quiet, kindly "Nay." 'Twas thy withholding lightened all my cares That blessed day.

—Oliver Huckel.

THE GLORIOUS MORN

Open the shutters free and wide. And "glorify the room"; That no dark shadows here may bide— That there be naught of gloom.

What joy to breathe the morning air, And see the sun again; With living things God's love to share, In recompense for pain.

—Henry Coyle.

For all the evils under the sun There is some remedy or none; If there is one be sure to find it; If there is none, why, never mind it.

EVENING PRAISE

Again, O God, the night shuts down, Again I kneel to praise! Thy wisdom, love, and truth and power Have long made glad my days. And, now, with added gratitude, An evening hymn I raise.

I take the attitude of prayer, But not for gifts to plead; Thy bounty, far beyond desert, Has more than met my need; So, well content, I worship Thee In thought and word and deed.

Thou bidst me ask, if I'd receive, And seek, if I would find; But surely Thou wilt not condemn A heart to trust inclined. Give what is best; Thou knowest all. How blest the quiet mind!

I praise thee that in all the hours And moments, as they glide, Thy providence enfoldeth close; Thy blessings rich abide; And Thou dost keep in perfect peace Those who in thee confide.

I praise thee for what seemeth good, And for what seemeth ill. Appearances are vain deceits; Above them stands thy will; By faith, not sight, thy children walk, In hottest fire hold still.

Accept the off'ring that I lay In gladness at thy feet; My heart o'erflows with keenest joy, With ecstacy complete. Because, in all vicissitudes, Thy constancy I greet.

Thou wilt not cease to love me well, Nor fail to hold me fast; Though pain may come, it cannot harm; My care on thee is cast, For future good he'll surely send Who sent so sweet a past.

Praise waits in Zion, Lord, for thee, Praise runs the world around; And so this little heart of mine Shall ne'er in gloom be found, Rejoicing that all days and nights May with thy praise resound.

—James Mudge.

GO TELL JESUS

Bury thy sorrow, The world has its share; Bury it deeply, Hide it with care.

Think of it calmly When curtained by night; Tell it to Jesus, And all will be right.

Tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief; Tell it to Jesus, He'll send thee relief.

Gather the sunlight Aglow on thy way; Gather the moonbeams, Each soft silver ray.

Hearts grown aweary With heavier woe, Droop 'mid the darkness— Go comfort them, go!

Bury thy sorrow, Let others be blest; Give them the sunshine, Tell Jesus the rest.

WE WILL PRAISE THEE

Great Jehovah! we will praise thee, Earth and heaven thy will obey; Suns and systems move obedient To thy universal sway.

Deep and awful are thy counsels; High and glorious is thy throne; Reigning o'er thy vast dominion, Thou art God and thou alone.

In thy wondrous condescension Thou hast stooped to raise our race; Thou hast given to us a Saviour, Full of goodness and of grace.

By his blood we are forgiven, By his intercession free, By his love we rise to glory There to reign eternally.

God of Power—we bow before thee; God of Wisdom—thee we praise; God of Love—so kind and tender, We would praise thee all our days.

Praise to thee—our loving Father; Praise to thee—redeeming Son; Praise to thee—Almighty Spirit; Praise to thee—Thou Holy One.

—John White.

AFTER ALL

We take our share of fretting, Of grieving and forgetting; The paths are often rough and steep, and heedless feet may fall; But yet the days are cheery, And night brings rest when weary And somehow this old planet is a good world after all.

Though sharp may be our trouble, The joys are more than double, The brave surpass the cowards and the leal are like a wall To guard their dearest ever, To fail the feeblest never; And somehow this old earth remains a bright world after all.

There's always love that's caring, And shielding and forbearing, Dear woman's love to hold us close and keep our hearts in thrall. There's home to share together In calm or stormy weather, And while the hearth-flame burns it is a good world after all.

The lisp of children's voices, The chance of happy choices, The bugle sounds of hope and faith, through fogs and mists that call; The heaven that stretches o'er us, The better days before us, They all combine to make this earth a good world after all.

—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

Sound an anthem in your sorrows, Build a fortress of your fears; Throw a halo round your trials, Weave a rainbow of your tears.

Never mind if shadows darken, Never fear though foes be strong; Lift your heads and shout hosannah! Praise the Lord, it won't be long.

BE OF GOOD CHEER

God is near thee, Christian; cheer thee, Rest in him, sad soul; He will keep thee when around thee Billows roll.

Calm thy sadness, look in gladness To thy Friend on high; Faint and weary pilgrim, cheer thee; Help is nigh.

Mark the sea-bird wildly wheeling Through the stormy skies; God defends him, God attends him When he cries.

Fare thee onward through the sunshine Or through wintry blast; Fear forsake thee; God will take thee Home at last.

PESSIMIST AND OPTIMIST

This one sits shivering in Fortune's smile, Taking his joy with bated, doubtful breath. This one, gnawed by hunger, all the while Laughs in the teeth of death.

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

PRAISE WAITETH FOR THEE

They stand, the regal mountains, with crowns of spotless snow, Forever changeless, grand, sublime, while ages come and go! Each day the morning cometh in through the eastern gate, With trailing robes of pink and gold; yet still they watch and wait For that more glorious morning, till that glad message sounds— "Lift up your heads, ye gates of God! the King of glory comes!"

And so they stand o'erlooking earth's trouble, pain and sin, And wait the call to lift their gates and let the King come in. O calm, majestic mountains! O everlasting hills! Beside your patient watch how small seem all life's joys and ills!

Beyond, the restless ocean, mysterious, vast, and dim, Whose changeful waves forever chant their grand triumphal hymn. Now tempest-lashed and raging, with deep and hungry roar, The foam-capped billows dash themselves in anger on the shore,

Now wavelets ripple gently along the quiet strand, While summer's sunshine broodeth soft o'er all the sea and land. O mighty waves! as chainless, as free, as birds that skim! There's One who rules the stormy sea—thy song is all of him.

And so in the shadowy forest the birds sing loud and sweet From swaying boughs where breezes rock their little broods to sleep. The golden cups of the cowslip spring from the mossy sod, And the sweet blue violet blooms alone—just for itself and God.

It is aye the same old lesson, from mountain, wood, and sea, The old, old story, ever new, and wondrous grand to me— Of One who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand; Whose presence shone from mountain top in that far eastern land.

"The groves are God's own temples"; the wild birds sing his praise; And every flower in the forest dim its humble tribute pays; For God loves all his creatures, however weak and small; His grandest works give praise to him, for he is Lord of all.

We cannot make bargains for blisses, Nor catch them like fishes in nets; And sometimes the thing our life misses Helps more than the thing which it gets. For good lieth not in pursuing, Nor gaining of great nor of small, But just in the doing, and doing As we would be done by is all.

—Alice Cary.

DON'T TAKE IT TO HEART

There's many a trouble Would break like a bubble, And into the waters of Lethe depart, Did we not rehearse it, And tenderly nurse it, And give it a permanent place in the heart.

There's many a sorrow Would vanish to-morrow Were we but willing to furnish the wings; So sadly intruding, And quietly brooding, It hatches out all sorts of horrible things.

How welcome the seeming Of looks that are beaming Whether one's wealthy or whether one's poor; Eyes bright as a berry, Cheeks red as a cherry, The groan and the curse and the heartache can cure.

Resolve to be merry, All worry to ferry Across the famed waters which bid us forget, And no longer fearful, But happy and cheerful, We feel life has much that's worth living for yet.

ALTHOUGH—YET

Away! my unbelieving fear! Fear shall in me no more have place; My Saviour doth not yet appear, He hides the brightness of his face, But shall I therefore let him go, And basely to the tempter yield? No, in the strength of Jesus, no; I never will give up my shield.

Although the vine its fruit deny, Although the olive yield no oil, The withering fig-trees droop and die, The fields elude the tiller's toil. The empty stall no herd afford, And perish all the bleating race, Yet will I triumph in the Lord— The God of my salvation praise.

—Charles Wesley.

'Tis impious in a good man to be sad.

—Edward Young.

AS A BIRD IN MEADOWS FAIR

As a bird in meadows fair Or in lovely forest sings, Till it fills the summer air And the green wood sweetly rings, So my heart to thee would raise, O my God, its song of praise That the gloom of night is o'er And I see the sun once more.

If thou, Sun of love, arise, All my heart with joy is stirred, And to greet thee upward flies, Gladsome as yon tiny bird. Shine thou in me, clear and bright, Till I learn to praise thee right; Guide me in the narrow way, Let me ne'er in darkness stray.

Bless to-day whate'er I do; Bless whate'er I have and love; From the paths of virtue true Let me never, never rove; By thy spirit strengthen me In the faith that leads to Thee, Then, an heir of life on high, Fearless I may live and die.

"HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL!"

Pleased in the sunshine, pleased in the blast, Pleased when the heavens are all overcast, Pleased when I can or cannot see God's loving hand is dealing with me.

Pleased, for Christ's promises never can fail; Pleased in the calm and also the gale; Knowing Omniscience at midnight can see, Since he was Pilot on dark Galilee.

Pleased when in health or when I am ill, Pleased, since I know I'm in the Lord's will, Pleased with whatever my lot may be Knowing Omnipotence careth for me.

Beneath the tiger's jaw I heard a victim cry, "Thanks, God, that, though in pain, yet not in guilt I die."

—From the Persian.

THE ROBIN'S SONG

I'll sing you a lay ere I wing on my way, Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheer up! Whenever you're blue find something to do For somebody else who is sadder than you. Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheer up!

He growled at morning, noon, and night, And trouble sought to borrow; Although to-day the sky were bright He knew 'twould storm to-morrow; A thought of joy he could not stand, And struggled to resist it; Though sunshine dappled all the land This sorry pessimist it.

—Nixon Waterman.

Oh, be in God's clear world no dark and troubled sprite! To Christ, thy Master mild, do no such foul despite; But show in look, word, mien, that thou belongst to him, Who says, "My yoke is easy, and my burden light."

—Friedrich Rueckert.

Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day, With a patient hand removing All the briars from our way.

O give me the joy of living And some glorious work to do! A spirit of thanksgiving, With loyal heart and true; Some pathway to make brighter, Where tired feet now stray; Some burden to make lighter, While 'tis day.

True happiness (if understood) Consists alone in doing good.

Talk happiness each chance you get—and talk it good and strong! Look for it in the byways as you grimly pass along; Perhaps it is a stranger now whose visit never comes, But talk it! Soon you'll find that you and happiness are chums.

'Tis Being and Doing and Having that make All the pleasures and pains of which mortals partake. To Be what God pleases, to Do a man's best, And to Have a good heart, is the way to be blest.

If the weather is cold don't scold, If the weather is wet don't fret, If the weather is warm don't storm, If the weather is dry don't cry; But be cheerful together, whatever the weather.

The inner side of every cloud Is bright and shining; Therefore I turn my clouds about, And always wear them inside out, To show the lining.

—Ellen Thornycroft Fowler Felkin.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

—Richard Hovey.

There is no human being With so wholly dark a lot, But the heart, by turning the picture, May find some sunny spot.

Let us cry, All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more now Than flesh helps soul.

—Robert Browning.



AFFLICTION

CONSOLATION, TRIAL, ENDURANCE

RESIGNATION

There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair.

The air is full of farewells to the dying And mourning for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call death.

She is not dead—the child of our affection— But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives.

* * * * *

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

MADE PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING

I bless thee, Lord, for sorrows sent To break my dream of human power; For now, my shallow cistern spent, I find thy founts, and thirst no more.

I take Thy hand, and fears grow still; Behold thy face, and doubts remove; Who would not yield his wavering will To perfect Truth and boundless Love?

That Love this restless soul doth teach The strength of thine eternal calm; And tune its sad but broken speech To join on earth the angel's psalm.

Oh, be it patient in thy hands, And drawn, through each mysterious hour, To service of thy pure commands, The narrow way of Love and Power.

—Samuel Johnson.

GO NOT FAR FROM ME

Go not far from me, O my strength, Whom all my times obey: Take from me any thing Thou wilt, But go not thou away— And let the storm that does thy work Deal with me as it may.

On thy compassion I repose, In weakness and distress; I will not ask for greater ease, Lest I should love Thee less. Oh 'tis a blessed thing for me To need thy tenderness.

While many sympathizing hearts For my deliverance care, Thou, in thy wiser, stronger love, Art teaching me to bear— By the sweet voice of thankful song, And calm, confiding prayer.

Thy love has many a lighted path, No outward eye can trace, And my heart sees thee in the deep, With darkness on its face. And communes with thee, 'mid the storm, As in a secret place.

O Comforter of God's redeemed, Whom the world does not see, What hand should pluck me from the flood That casts my soul on thee? Who would not suffer pain like mine To be consoled like me?

When I am feeble as a child, And flesh and heart give way, Then on thy everlasting strength With passive trust I stay. And the rough wind becomes a song, The darkness shines like day.

O blessed are the eyes that see— Though silent anguish show— The love that in their hours of sleep Unthanked may come and go. And blessed are the ears that hear, Though kept awake by woe.

Happy are they that learn, in thee— Though patient suffering teach— The secret of enduring strength And praise too deep for speech: Peace that no pressure from without, No strife within, can reach.

There is no death for me to fear, For Christ, my Lord, hath died; There is no curse in this my pain, For he was crucified. And it is fellowship with him That keeps me near his side.

My heart is fixed—O God, my strength— My heart is strong to bear; I will be joyful in thy love, And peaceful in thy care. Deal with me, for my Saviour's sake, According to his prayer.

No suffering while it lasts is joy, How blest soe'er it be, Yet may the chastened child be glad His Father's face to see; And oh, it is not hard to bear What must be borne in thee.

It is not hard to bear by faith, In thine own bosom laid, The trial of a soul redeemed, For thy rejoicing made. Well may the heart in patience rest That none can make afraid.

Safe in thy sanctifying grace— Almighty to restore— Borne onward, sin and death behind, And love and life before, O let my soul abound in hope, And praise thee more and more.

Deep unto deep may call, but I With peaceful heart will say— Thy loving-kindness hath a charge No waves can take away; And let the storm that speeds me home Deal with me as it may.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

Walking along the shore one morn, A holy man by chance I found Who by a tiger had been torn And had no salve to heal his wound. Long time he suffered grievous pain, But not the less to the Most High He offered thanks. They asked him, Why? For answer he thanked God again; And then to them: "That I am in No greater peril than you see: That what has overtaken me Is but misfortune—and not sin."

—Richard Henry Stoddard.

THE CELESTIAL SURGEON

If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain; Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in.

—Robert Louis Stevenson.

I ASKED THE LORD THAT I MIGHT GROW

I asked the Lord that I might grow In faith and love and every grace; Might more of his salvation know, And seek more earnestly his face.

'Twas He who taught me thus to pray, And he, I trust, has answer'd prayer; But it has been in such a way As almost drove me to despair.

I hop'd that in some favor'd hour At once he'd answer my request, And by his love's constraining power Subdue my sins and give me rest.

Instead of this he made me feel The hidden evils of my heart, And let the angry powers of hell Assault my soul in ev'ry part.

Yes, more: with his own hand he seem'd Intent to aggravate my woe, Cross'd all the fair designs I schemed, Blasted my gourds and laid them low.

"Lord, why is this?" I trembling cried; "Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?" "'Tis in this way," the Lord replied, "I answer prayer for grace and faith.

"These inward trials I employ From self and pride to set thee free, And break thy schemes of earthly joy That thou mayest set thine all in me!"

—John Newton.

"THOU MAINTAINEST MY LOT"

Source of my life's refreshing springs, Whose presence in my heart sustains me, Thy love appoints me pleasant things, Thy mercy orders all that pains me.

If loving hearts were never lonely, If all they wished might always be, Accepting what they look for only, They might be glad—but not in thee.

Well may thy own beloved, who see In all their lot their Father's pleasure, Bear loss of all they love save thee, Their living, everlasting treasure.

Well may thy happy children cease From restless wishes, prone to sin, And, in thine own exceeding peace, Yield to thy daily discipline.

We need as much the cross we bear As air we breathe, as light we see! It draws us to thy side in prayer, It binds us to our strength in thee.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

THE MASTER'S TOUCH

In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen; To make the music and the beauty needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.

Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand; Let not the music that is in us die. Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let Hidden and lost thy form within us lie!

Spare not the stroke! Do with us as thou wilt! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord!

—Horatius Bonar.

The childish smile is fair, but lovelier far The smiles which tell of griefs that now no longer are.

—John Sterling.

A BLESSING IN TEARS

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swoon'd nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend, and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee; Like summer tempest came her tears: "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

—Alfred Tennyson.

EVERY DAY

O trifling task so often done, Yet ever to be done anew! O cares which come with every sun, Morn after morn, the long years through! We sink beneath their paltry sway— The irksome calls of every day.

The restless sense of wasted power, The tiresome round of little things, Are hard to bear, as hour by hour Its tedious iteration brings; Who shall evade or who delay The small demands of every day?

The bowlder, in the torrent's course By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force And yields its substance grain by grain; So crumble strongest lives away Beneath the wear of every day.

Who finds the lion in his lair, Who tracks the tiger for his life May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife, Yet powerless he to scathe or slay The vexing gnats of every day.

The steady strain that never stops Is mightier than the fiercest shock; The constant fall of water drops Will groove the adamantine rock; We feel our noblest powers decay In feeble wars with every day.

We rise to meet a heavy blow— Our souls a sudden bravery fills— But we endure not always so The drop by drop of little ills; We still deplore, and still obey, The hard behests of every day.

The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath The needle-points of frets and cares; The stoutest spirits they dismay— The tiny stings of every day.

And even saints of holy fame, Whose souls by faith have overcome, Who won amid the cruel flame The molten crown of martyrdom, Bore not without complaint alway The petty pains of every day.

Ah, more than martyr's aureole, And more than hero's heart of fire, We need the humble strength of soul Which daily toils and ills require; Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may, An added grace for every day.

PEACEABLE FRUIT

(Heb. 12. 11.)

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this dark and suffering night? Father, what shall thine "afterward" be? Hast thou a morning of joy for me, And a new and joyous light?

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For the moan that I cannot stay? Shall it issue in some new song of praise, Sweeter than sorrowless heart could raise, When the night hath passed away?

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this helplessness of pain? A clearer view of my home above, Of my Father's strength and my Father's love— Shall this be my lasting gain?

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord? How long must thy child endure? Thou knowest! 'Tis well that I know it not! Thine "afterward" cometh—I cannot tell what, But I know that thy word is sure.

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, I wonder—and wait to see (While to thy chastening hand I bow) What "peaceable fruit" may be ripening now— Ripening fast for me!

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

HOW WE LEARN

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth, Such as men give and take from day to day, Comes in the common walk of easy life, Blown by the careless wind across our way.

Great truths are greatly won, not found by chance, Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream; But grasped in the great struggle of the soul Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream.

But in the day of conflict, fear and grief, When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light,

Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, Truth springs like harvest from the well-plowed field. And the soul feels it has not wept in vain.

—Horatius Bonar.

Though trouble-tossed and torture-torn The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn.

—Gerald Massey.

HEAVIER THE CROSS

Heavier the cross the stronger faith: The loaded palm strikes deeper root; The vine-juice sweetly issueth When men have pressed the clustered fruit; And courage grows where dangers come Like pearls beneath the salt sea foam.

Heavier the cross the heartier prayer; The bruised herbs most fragrant are; If sky and wind were always fair The sailor would not watch the star; And David's psalms had ne'er been sung If grief his heart had never wrung.

Heavier the cross the more aspiring; From vales we climb to mountain's crest; The pilgrim, of the desert tiring, Longs for the Canaan of his rest. The dove has here no rest in sight, And to the ark she wings her flight.

Heavier the cross the easier dying; Death is a friendlier face to see; To life's decay one bids defying, From life's distress one then is free; The cross sublimely lifts our faith To him who triumphed over death.

Thou Crucified! the cross I carry— The longer may it dearer be; And, lest I faint while here I tarry, Implant thou such a heart in me That faith, hope, love, may flourish there Till for the cross my crown I wear.

—Benjamin Schmolke.

LA ROCHELLE

A worthy man of Paris town Came to the bishop there: His face, o'erclouded with dismay, Betrayed a fixed despair.

"Father," said he, "a sinner vile Am I, against my will: Each hour I humbly pray for faith, But am a doubter still.

"Sure were I not despised of God, He would not leave me so To struggle thus in constant strife Against the deadly foe."

The bishop to his sorrowing son Thus spoke a kind relief: "The King of France has castles twain; To each he sends a chief.

"There's Montelhery, far inland, That stands in place secure; While La Rochelle, upon the coast, Doth sieges oft endure.

"Now for these castles—both preserved— First in his prince's love Shall Montelhery's chief be placed, Or La Rochelle's above?"

"Oh! doubtless, sire," the sinner said, "That king will love the most The man whose task was hard to keep His castle on the coast!"

"Son," said the bishop, "thou art right; Apply this reasoning well: My heart is Montelhery fort, And thine is La Rochelle!"

IF THOU COULD'ST KNOW

I think, if thou could'st know, O soul, that will complain, What lies concealed below Our burden and our pain— How just our anguish brings Nearer those longed-for things We seek for now in vain— I think thou would'st rejoice and not complain.

I think, if thou could'st see, With thy dim mortal sight, How meanings, dark to thee, Are shadows hiding light; Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, Life's purpose all perplexed— If thou could'st see them right, I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, and bright.

And yet thou can'st not know; And yet thou can'st not see; Wisdom and sight are slow In poor humanity. If thou could'st trust, poor soul, In him who rules the whole, Thou would'st find peace and rest: Wisdom and sight are well, but trust is best.

MY CROSS

"O Lord, my God!" I oft have said, "Had I some other cross instead Of this I bear from day to day, 'Twere easier to go on my way.

"I do not murmur at its weight; That Thou hast made proportionate To my scant strength; but oh! full sore It presses where it pressed before.

"Change for a space, however brief, The wonted burden, that relief May o'er my aching shoulders steal, And the deep bruise have room to heal!"

While thus I sadly sighed to-day I heard my gracious Father say, "Can'st thou not trust my love, my child, And to thy cross be reconciled?

"I fashioned it thy needs to meet; Nor were thy discipline complete Without that very pain and bruise Which thy weak heart would fain refuse."

Ashamed, I answered, "As Thou wilt! I own my faithlessness and guilt; Welcome the weary pain shall be, Since only that is best for me."

GOD KNOWETH BEST

He took them from me, one by one, The things I set my heart upon; They looked so harmless, fair, and blest; Would they have hurt me? God knows best. He loves me so, he would not wrest Them from me if it were not best.

He took them from me, one by one, The friends I set my heart upon. O did they come, they and their love, Between me and my Lord above? Were they as idols in my breast? It may be. God in heaven knows best.

I will not say I did not weep, As doth a child that wants to keep The pleasant things in hurtful play His wiser parent takes away; But in this comfort I will rest: He who hath taken knoweth best.

THE ONLY SOLACE

O Thou who driest the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to thee!

The friends who in our sunshine live When winter comes are flown; And he who has but tears to give Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.

O who could bear life's stormy doom Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above!

Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day.

—Thomas Moore.

CONSOLATION

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. Did our beloved never need Our patient ministration Earth would grow cold, and miss indeed Its sweetest consolation. If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart— Life would be disenchanted.

Banish far from me all I love, The smiles of friends, the old fireside, And drive me to that home of homes, The heart of Jesus crucified.

Take all the light away from earth, Take all that men can love from me; Let all I lean upon give way, That I may lean on naught but Thee.

—Frederick William Faber.

PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING

God never would send you the darkness If he felt you could bear the light; But you would not cling to his guiding hand If the way were always bright; And you would not care to walk by faith Could you always walk by sight.

'Tis true he has many an anguish For your sorrowful heart to bear, And many a cruel thorn-crown For your tired head to wear: He knows how few would reach heaven at all If pain did not guide them there.

So he sends you the blinding darkness, And the furnace of seven-fold heat. 'Tis the only way, believe me, To keep you close to his feet, For 'tis always so easy to wander When our lives are glad and sweet.

Then nestle your hand in your Father's And sing, if you can, as you go; Your song may cheer some one behind you Whose courage is sinking low. And—well—if your lips do quiver— God will love you better so.

A LITTLE PARABLE

I made the cross myself whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought is torture as I toil Up life's steep Calvary.

To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong.

If I had guessed—if I had dreamed— Its weight was meant for me, I should have made a lighter cross To bear up Calvary.

—Anne Reeve Aldrich.

The unpolished pearl can never shine— 'Tis sorrow makes the soul divine.

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

THE SOWER

I

A Sower went forth to sow; His eyes were dark with woe; He crushed the flowers beneath his feet, Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, That prayed for pity everywhere. He came to a field that was harried By iron, and to heaven laid bare; He shook the seed that he carried O'er that brown and bladeless place. He shook it, as God shakes hail Over a doomed land. When lightnings interlace The sky and the earth, and his wand Of love is a thunder-flail. Thus did that Sower sow; His seed was human blood, And tears of women and men. And I, who near him stood, Said: When the crop comes, then There will be sobbing and sighing, Weeping and wailing and crying, Flame, and ashes, and woe.

II

It was an autumn day When next I went that way. And what, think you, did I say, What was it that I heard, What music was in the air? The song of a sweet-voiced bird? Nay—but the songs of many Thrilled through with praise and prayer. Of all those voices not any Were sad of memory; But a sea of sunlight flowed, A golden harvest glowed, And I said, Thou only art wise, God of the earth and skies! And I praise thee, again and again, For the Sower whose name is Pain.

—Richard Watson Gilder.

Not disabled in the combat, No, nor absent from your post; You are doing gallant service Where the Master needs you most.

It was noble to give battle While the world stood cheering on; It is nobler to lie patient, Leaving half one's work undone.

And the King counts up his heroes Where the desperate charge was led, But he writes, "My Best Beloved," Over many a sick man's bed.

I DO NOT ASK, O LORD

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load.

I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead: Lead me aright. Though strength should falter and though heart should bleed, Through peace to light.

I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed Full radiance here; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear.

I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see; Better in darkness just to feel thy hand, And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day; but peace divine Like quiet night. Lead me, O Lord, till perfect day shall shine Through peace to light.

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

ANGELS OF GRIEF

With silence only as their benediction God's angels come, Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb.

Yet would we say, what every heart approveth, Our Father's will, Calling to him the dear ones whom he loveth, Is mercy still.

Not upon us or ours the solemn angel Hath evil wrought; The funeral anthem is a glad evangel— The good die not!

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What he has given; They live on earth in thought and deed as truly As in his heaven.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

FURNACE AND HAMMER

Pain's furnace-heat within me quivers, God's breath upon the flame doth blow; And all my heart in anguish shivers And trembles at the fiery glow; And yet I whisper—"As God will!" And in his hottest fire stand still.

He comes, and lays my heart, all heated, On the hard anvil, minded so Into his own fair shape to beat it With his great hammer, blow on blow; And yet I whisper—"As God will!" And at his heaviest blows hold still.

He takes my softened heart and beats it; The sparks fly off at every blow; He turns it o'er and o'er and heats it, And lets it cool, and makes it glow; And yet I whisper—"As God will!" And in his mighty hand hold still.

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow Thus only longer-lived would be; Its end may come, and will to-morrow, When God has done his work in me; So I say trusting—"As God will!" And, trusting to the end, hold still.

—Julius Sturm.

WITH SELF DISSATISFIED

Not when with self dissatisfied, O Lord, I lowly lie, So much I need thy grace to guide, And thy reproving eye,

As when the sound of human praise Grows pleasant to my ear, And in its light my broken ways Fair and complete appear.

By failure and defeat made wise, We come to know, at length, What strength within our weakness lies, What weakness in our strength;

What inward peace is born of strife What power of being spent; What wings unto our upward life Is noble discontent.

O Lord, we need thy shaming look That burns all low desire; The discipline of thy rebuke Shall be refining fire!

—Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

TOO MUCH SELF

Some evil upon Rabia fell; And one who loved and knew her well Murmured that God with pain undue Should strike a child so fond and true. But she replied, "Believe and trust That all I suffer is most just. I had, in contemplation, striven To realize the joys of heaven; I had extended fancy's flights Through all that region of delights, Had counted, till the numbers failed, The pleasures on the blest entailed. Had sounded the ecstatic rest I should enjoy on Allah's breast— And for these thoughts I now atone; They were of something of my own, And were not thoughts of him alone."

—From the Arabian.

THE GAIN OF LOSS

O thou so weary of thy self-denials, And so impatient of thy little cross, Is it so hard to bear thy daily trials, And count all earthly things a gainful loss?

Canst thou forget thy Christian superscription, "Behold, we count them happy which endure"? What treasure wouldst thou, in the land Egyptian, Repass the stormy water to secure?

And wilt thou yield thy sure and glorious promise For the poor, fleeting joys earth can afford? No hand can take away the treasure from us That rests within the keeping of the Lord.

A STRANGE BOON

Oft when of God we ask For fuller, happier life, He sets us some new task Involving care and strife; Is this the boon for which we sought? Has prayer new trouble on us brought?

This is indeed the boon, Though strange to us it seems; We pierce the rock, and soon The blessing on us streams; For when we are the most athirst, Then the clear waters on us burst.

We toil as in the field Wherein, to us unknown, A treasure lies concealed Which may be all our own. And shall we of the toil complain That speedily will bring such gain?

We dig the wells of life, And God the waters gives; We win our way by strife, Then he within us lives; And only war could make us meet For peace so sacred and so sweet.

—Thomas Toke Lynch.

STILL HOPE! STILL ACT!

Still hope! still act! Be sure that life The source and strength of every good, Wastes down in feeling's empty strife, And dies in dreaming's sickly mood.

To toil in tasks however mean For all we know of right and true— In this alone our worth is seen, 'Tis this we were ordained to do.

So shalt thou find, in work and thought: The peace that sorrow cannot give; Though grief's worst pangs to thee be taught, By thee let others nobler live.

Oh, wait not in the darksome forest, Where thou must needs be left alone, But e'en when memory is sorest, Seek out a path and journey on!

Thou wilt have angels near above By whom invisible aid is given; They journey still on tasks of love, And never rest except in heaven.

—John Sterling.

THEY SHALL NOT OVERFLOW

In the floods of tribulation, While the billows o'er me roll, Jesus whispers consolation And supports my fainting soul; Sweet affliction That brings Jesus to my soul.

Thus the lion yields me honey, From the eater food is given; Strengthened thus I still press forward, Singing on my way to heaven. Sweet affliction, Helping speed me on to heaven.

So in darkest dispensations Doth my faithful Lord appear, With his richest consolations To reanimate and cheer; Sweet affliction, Thus to bring my Saviour near.

Floods of tribulation heighten, Billows still around me roar; Those who know not Christ they frighten; But my soul defies their power: Sweet affliction, Thus to bring my Saviour near.

In the sacred page recorded, Thus His word securely stands; "Fear not; I'm, in trouble, near thee, Naught shall pluck thee from my hands." Sweet affliction, Every word my love demands.

All I meet, I find, assists me In my path to heavenly joy, Where, though trials now attend me, Trials never more annoy. Sweet affliction, Every promise gives me joy.

Wearing there a weight of glory, Still the path I'll ne'er forget, But, exulting, cry it led me To my blessed Saviour's seat; Sweet affliction, Which hath brought me to his feet.

—Pearce.

Glory to God—to God! he saith, Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

HIS WAYS

I asked for grace to lift me high, Above the world's depressing cares. God sent me sorrows,—with a sigh I said, He has not heard my prayers.

I asked for light, that I might see My path along life's thorny road; But clouds and darkness shadowed me When I expected light from God.

I asked for peace, that I might rest To think my sacred duties o'er, When lo! such horrors filled my breast As I had never felt before.

And O, I cried, can this be prayer Whose plaints the steadfast mountains move? Can this be heaven's prevailing care? And, O my God, is this thy love?

But soon I found that sorrow, worn As duty's garment, strength supplies, And out of darkness meekly borne Unto the righteous light doth rise.

And soon I found that fears which stirred My startled soul God's will to do, On me more real peace conferred Than in life's calm I ever knew.

Then, Lord, in thy mysterious ways Lead my dependent spirit on, And whensoe'er it kneels and prays, Teach it to say, "Thy will be done!"

Let its one thought, one hope, one prayer, Thine image seek, thy glory see; Let every other wish and care Be left confidingly to thee.

—John Samuel Bewley Monsell.

COMPENSATION

Not in each shell the diver brings to air Is found the priceless pearl, but only where Mangled, and torn, and bruised well-nigh to death, The wounded oyster draws its laboring breath. O tired and suffering soul! gauge here your gain; The pearl of patience is the fruit of pain.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

THE DARK ANGEL

Count each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee. Do thou With courtesy receive him, rise and bow, And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave, Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate Thy soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief should be, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles, to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

—Aubrey Thomas De Vere.

SONG—SERMON

Lord, what is man, That thou art mindful of him? Though in creation's van, Lord, what is man? He wills less than he can, Lets his ideal scoff him! Lord, what is man, That thou art mindful of him?

—George Macdonald.

Lord, shall we grumble when thy flames do scourge us? Our sins breathe fire; thy fire returns to purge us. Lord, what an alchemist art thou, whose skill Transmutes to perfect good from perfect ill!

—Francis Quarles.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; No traveler e'er reached that blest abode Who found not thorns and briers in his road.

—William Cowper.

TAKE AWAY PAIN

The cry of man's anguish went up unto God: "Lord, take away pain— The shadow that darkens the world thou hast made, The close-coiling chain That strangles the heart, the burden that weighs On the wings that would soar— Lord, take away pain from the world thou hast made, That it love thee the more!"

Then answered the Lord to the cry of his world: "Shall I take away pain And with it the power of the soul to endure, Made strong by the strain? Shall I take away pity, that knits heart to heart, And sacrifice high? Will ye lose all your heroes that lift from the fire White brows to the sky? Shall I take away love, that redeems with a price And smiles at its loss? Can ye spare from your lives, that would climb unto mine, The Christ on his cross?"

'Tis not alone in the sunshine Our lives grow pure and true; There is growth as well in the shadow, And pain has a work to do.

So it comes to me more and more As I enter upon each new day: The love of the Father eternal Is over us all the way.

"In pastures green"? Not always; sometimes he Who knoweth best in kindness leadeth me In weary ways where heavy shadows be.

But where He leads me I can safely go, And in the blest hereafter I shall know Why in his wisdom he hath led me so.

A SONG OF SOLACE

Thou sweet hand of God, that so woundest my heart, Thou makest me smile while thou mak'st me to smart; It seems as if God were at ball-play; and I, The harder he strikes me the higher I fly.

I own it, he bruises, he pierces me sore; But the hammer and chisel afflict me no more. Shall I tell you the reason? It is that I see The Sculptor will carve out an angel for me.

I shrink from no suffering, how painful soe'er, When once I can feel that my God's hand is there; For soft on the anvil the iron shall glow When the Smith with his hammer deals blow upon blow.

God presses me hard, but he gives patience, too! And I say to myself, "'Tis no more than my due," And no tone from the organ can swell on the breeze Till the organist's fingers press down on the keys.

So come, then, and welcome the blow and the pain! Without them no mortal to heaven can attain; For what can the sheaves on the barn floor avail Till the thresher shall beat out the chaff with his flail?

'Tis only a moment God chastens with pain; Joy follows on sorrow like sunshine on rain. Then bear thou what God on thy spirit shall lay; Be dumb; but, when tempted to murmur, then pray.

—From the German.

When thou hast thanked thy God for every blessing sent, What time will then remain for murmurs or lament?

We must live through the weary winter If we would value the spring; And the woods must be cold and silent Before the robins sing. The flowers must lie buried in darkness Before they can bud and bloom; And the sweetest and warmest sunshine Comes after the storm and gloom.

—Agnes L. Pratt.

We look along the shining ways, To see the angel faces; They come to us in darkest days And in the blackest places. The strongest hearts have strongest need, To them the fiery trial; Who walks a saint in word and deed Is saint by self-denial.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, That the strongest suffer most, That the wisest wander farthest, And most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature Is capacity for pain, That the anguish of the singer Makes the sweetness of the strain?

O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine. And trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.

—James Russell Lowell.

But all God's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after other lift their frowning masks, And we behold the seraph's face beneath All radiant with the glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of God.

—James Russell Lowell.

The man whom God delights to bless He never curses with success. Thrice happy loss which makes me see My happiness is all in thee.

—Charles Wesley.

Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half. Who never failed, he never strove or sought. Who never wept is stranger to a laugh And he who never doubted never thought.

—J. B. Goode.

I thank thee, Lord, that all my joy Is touched with pain; That shadows fall on brightest hours; That thorns remain; So that earth's bliss may be my guide, And not my chain.

Would'st thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold? Balm would'st thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.

Art thou weary, tender heart? Be glad of pain; In sorrow sweetest things will grow As flowers in rain. God watches; and thou wilt have sun When clouds their perfect work have done.

—Lucy Larcom.

'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities Whereon our firm feet planting nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.

—James Russell Lowell.

In the pleasant orchard closes, "God bless all our gains," say we; But "May God bless all our losses," Better suits with our degree.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

I hold it true, whate'er befall, I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

—Alfred Tennyson.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears Have holiest ministries.

—Josiah Gilbert Holland.

I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones That men may rise on stepping stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

—Alfred Tennyson.

When God afflicts thee, think he hews a rugged stone, Which must be shaped or else aside as useless thrown.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

My sorrows have not been so light Thy chastening hand I could not trace, Nor have my blessings been so great That they have hid my Father's face.

Put pain from out the world, what room were left For thanks to God, for love to man?

—Robert Browning.

Heaven is not always angry when he strikes, But most chastises those whom most he likes.

—John Pomfret.

The good are better made by ill, As odors crushed are sweeter still.

—Samuel Rogers.

Only those are crowned and sainted Who with grief have been acquainted.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.



LOVE

DIVINE GOODNESS, UNSELFISHNESS

LOVE'S FULFILLING

O Love is weak Which counts the answers and the gains, Weighs all the losses and the pains, And eagerly each fond word drains A joy to seek.

When Love is strong It never tarries to take heed, Or know if its return exceed Its gifts; in its sweet haste no greed, No strifes belong.

It hardly asks If it be loved at all; to take So barren seems, when it can make Such bliss, for the beloved's sake, Of bitter tasks.

Its ecstacy Could find hard death so beauteous, It sees through tears how Christ loved us, And speaks, in saying "I love thus," No blasphemy.

So much we miss If love is weak, so much we gain If love is strong, God thinks no pain Too sharp or lasting to ordain To teach us this.

—Helen Hunt Jackson.

LOVE

If suddenly upon the street My gracious Saviour I should meet, And he should say, "As I love thee, What love hast thou to offer me?" Then what could this poor heart of mine Dare offer to that heart divine?

His eye would pierce my outward show, His thought my inmost thought would know; And if I said, "I love thee, Lord," He would not heed my spoken word, Because my daily life would tell If verily I loved him well.

If on the day or in the place Wherein he met me face to face My life could show some kindness done, Some purpose formed, some work begun, For his dear sake, then, it were meet Love's gift to lay at Jesus' feet.

—Charles Francis Richardson.

THE COMMON OFFERING

It is not the deed we do— Tho' the deed be never so fair— But the love that the dear Lord looketh for Hidden with holy care In the heart of the deed so fair.

The love is the priceless thing, The treasure our treasure must hold Or ever our Lord will take the gift, Or tell the worth of the gold By the love that cannot be told.

Behold us—the rich and the poor— Dear Lord, in thy service draw near; One consecrateth a precious coin, One droppeth only a tear; Look, Master, the love is here!

—Harriet McEwen Kimball.

True love shall trust, but selfish love must die, For trust is peace, and self is full of pain; Arise and heal thy brother's grief; his tears Shall wash thy love, and it will live again.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

EXPECTING AND KNOWING

Faith, Hope and Love were questioned what they thought Of future glory which religion taught; Now Faith believed it to be firmly true, And Hope expected so to find it too; Love answered, smiling with unconscious glow, "Believe? expect? I know it to be so."

—John Wesley.

THE LOVE OF GOD

Could we with ink the ocean fill, Were the whole world of parchment made, Were every single stick a quill, Were every man a scribe by trade; To write the love of God alone Would drain the ocean dry; Nor could the scroll contain the whole Though stretched from sky to sky.

THE KINGDOM OF GOD

I say to thee—do thou repeat To the first man thou mayest meet In lane, highway, or open street—

That he, and we, and all men move Under a canopy of love As broad as the blue sky above;

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain And anguish, all are shadows vain; That death itself shall not remain;

That weary deserts we may tread, A dreary labyrinth may thread, Through dark ways under ground be led,

Yet, if we will our Guide obey, The dreariest path, the darkest way, Shall issue out in heavenly day,

And we, on divers shores now cast, Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, All in our Father's house at last.

And, ere thou leave him, say thou this Yet one word more: They only miss The winning of that final bliss

Who will not count it true that love, Blessing, not cursing, rules above, And that in it we live and move.

And one thing further make him know: That to believe these things are so, This firm faith never to forego,

Despite of all that seems at strife With blessing, all with curses rife, That this is blessing, this is life.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

GOD'S ALL-EMBRACING LOVE

Thou grace divine, encircling all, A soundless, shoreless sea Wherein at last our souls shall fall; O love of God most free,

When over dizzy steeps we go One soft hand blinds our eyes, The other leads us, safe and slow, O love of God, most wise!

And though we turn us from thy face, And wander wide and long, Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace, O love of God most strong!

The saddened heart, the restless soul, The toil-worn frame and mind, Alike confess thy sweet control, O love of God most kind!

But not alone thy care we claim Our wayward steps to win; We know thee by a dearer name, O love of God, within!

And filled and quickened by thy breath Our souls are strong and free To rise o'er sin, and fear, and death, O love of God, to thee!

—Eliza Scudder.

Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

If I truly love the One All the loves are mine; Alien to my heart is none And life grows divine.

GOD'S MERCY

There's a wideness in God's mercy Like the wideness of the sea; There's a kindness in his justice Which is more than liberty. There is welcome for the sinner, And more graces for the good; There is mercy with the Saviour; There is healing in his blood.

There is no place where earth's sorrows Are more felt than up in heaven; There is no place where earth's failings Have such kindly judgment given. There is plentiful redemption In the blood that has been shed; There is joy for all the members In the sorrows of the Head.