Nay, nay! do not tell me that, wrapped in his glory. He hears not my voice when I cry; He made me! He loves me! He knows all my story! I shall look on his face by and by!

THE SURE REFUGE

O I know the Hand that is guiding me Through the shadow to the light; And I know that all betiding me Is meted out aright. I know that the thorny path I tread Is ruled with a golden line; And I know that the darker life's tangled thread The brighter the rich design.

When faints and fails each wilderness hope, And the lamp of faith burns dim, O! I know where to find the honey drop On the bitter chalice brim. For I see, though veiled from my mortal sight, God's plan is all complete; Though the darkness at present be not light, And the bitter be not sweet.

I can wait till the dayspring shall overflow The night of pain and care; For I know there's a blessing for every woe, A promise for every prayer. Yes, I feel that the Hand which is holding me Will ever hold me fast; And the strength of the arms that are folding me Will keep me to the last.

FOLLOWING

As God leads me will I go, Nor choose my way. Let him choose the joy or woe Of every day; They cannot hurt my soul, Because in his control; I leave to him the whole— His children may.

As God leads me I am still Within his hand; Though his purpose my self-will Doth oft withstand; Yet I wish that none But his will be done Till the end be won That he hath planned.

As God leads I am content; He will take care! All things by his will are sent That I must bear; To him I take my fear, My wishes, while I'm here; The way will all seem clear, When I am there!

As God leads me it is mine To follow him; Soon all shall wonderfully shine Which now seems dim. Fulfilled be his decree! What he shall choose for me That shall my portion be, Up to the brim!

As God leads me so my heart In faith shall rest. No grief nor fear my soul shall part From Jesus' breast. In sweet belief I know What way my life doth go— Since God permitteth so— That must be best.

—L. Gedicke.

"YOUR HEAVENLY FATHER KNOWETH"

There are two words of light divine That fall upon this heart of mine, That thrill me in the hour of gain, That still me in the hour of pain: Two words endued with magic power, Sufficient unto any hour— He knows.

As summer breezes, cool and sweet, Bring rest, relief from toil and heat; As showers, needed as they fall, Renew, refresh and comfort all; So to my feverish heart is given This loving message, fresh from heaven: He knows.

My fainting heart finds strength in this, My hungry heart here seeks its bliss; Here angry billows never surge, Here death can never sing its dirge; My rising fears, with murmuring fraught, Find sudden calm beneath this thought: He knows.

O lullaby for children grown! O nectar sweet for lips that moan! O balm to stricken hearts oppressed! O pillow where worn heads may rest! All joy, all comfort in thee meet, O blessed words, surpassing sweet, He knows.

FEAR NOT

Don't you trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you. Don't you look for trouble; Let trouble look for you.

Don't you borrow sorrow; You'll surely have your share. He who dreams of sorrow Will find that sorrow's there.

Don't you hurry worry By worrying lest it come. To flurry is to worry, 'Twill miss you if you're mum.

If care you've got to carry Wait till 'tis at the door; For he who runs to meet it Takes up the load before.

If minding will not mend it, Then better not to mind; The best thing is to end it— Just leave it all behind.

Who feareth hath forsaken The Heavenly Father's side; What he hath undertaken He surely will provide.

The very birds reprove thee With all their happy song; The very flowers teach thee That fretting is a wrong.

"Cheer up," the sparrow chirpeth, "Thy Father feedeth me; Think how much more he careth, O lonely child, for thee!"

"Fear not," the flowers whisper; "Since thus he hath arrayed The buttercup and daisy, How canst thou be afraid?"

Then don't you trouble trouble, Till trouble troubles you; You'll only double trouble, And trouble others too.

HE LEADS US ON

He leads us on By paths we did not know; Upward he leads us, though our steps be slow, Though oft we faint and falter on the way, Though storms and darkness oft obscure the day, Yet when the clouds are gone We know he leads us on.

He leads us on. Through all the unquiet years; Past all our dreamland hopes, and doubts, and fears, He guides our steps. Through all the tangled maze Of sin, of sorrow, and o'erclouded days We know his will is done; And still he leads us on.

And he, at last, After the weary strife— After the restless fever we call life— After the dreariness, the aching pain, The wayward struggles which have proved in vain, After our toils are past, Will give us rest at last.

THE DEVIL IS A FOOL

Saint Dominic, the glory of the schools, Writing, one day, "The Inquisition's" rules, Stopt, when the evening came, for want of light. The devils, who below from morn till night, Well pleased, had seen his work, exclaimed with sorrow, "Something he will forget before to-morrow!" One zealous imp flew upward from the place, And stood before him, with an angel face. "I come," said he, "sent from God's Realm of Peace, To light you, lest your holy labors cease." Well pleased, the saint wrote on with careful pen. The candle was consumed; the devil then Lighted his thumb; the saint, quite undisturbed, Finished his treatise to the final word. Then he looked up, and started with affright; For lo! the thumb blazed with a lurid light. "Your thumb is burned!" said he. The child of sin Changed to his proper form, and with a grin Said, "I will quench it in the martyrs' blood Your book will cause to flow—a crimson flood!"

Triumphantly the fiend returned to hell And told his story. Satan said, "'Tis well! Your aim was good, but foolish was the deed; For blood of martyrs is the Church's seed."

—Herder, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

PROVIDENCE

We all acknowledge both thy power and love To be exact, transcendent, and divine; Who dost so strongly and so sweetly move, While all things have their will, yet none but thine,

For either thy command or thy permission Lay hands on all: they are thy right and left: The first puts on with speed and expedition; The other curbs sin's stealing pace and theft.

Nothing escapes them both; all must appear And be disposed and dressed and tuned by thee, Who sweetly temperest all. If we could hear Thy skill and art what music would it be!

Thou art in small things great, nor small in any; Thy even praise can neither rise nor fall. Thou art in all things one, in each thing many; For thou art infinite in one and all.

—George Herbert.

THE MYSTERIOUS WAY

God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take: The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.

—William Cowper.

DISAPPOINTMENT

Our yet unfinished story Is tending all to this: To God the greatest glory, To us the greatest bliss.

If all things work together For ends so grand and blest, What need to wonder whether Each in itself is best!

If some things were omitted, Or altered as we would, The whole might be unfitted To work for perfect good.

Our plans may be disjointed, But we may calmly rest; What God has once appointed, Is better than our best.

We cannot see before us, But our all-seeing Friend Is always watching o'er us, And knows the very end.

What though we seem to stumble? He will not let us fall; And learning to be humble Is not lost time at all.

What though we fondly reckoned A smoother way to go Than where his hand hath beckoned? It will be better so.

What only seemed a barrier A stepping-stone shall be; Our God is no long tarrier, A present help is he.

And when amid our blindness His disappointments fall, We trust his loving-kindness Whose wisdom sends them all;

The discord that involveth Some startling change of key, The Master's hand revolveth In richest harmony.

Then tremble not, and shrink not, When disappointment nears; Be trustful still, and think not To realize all fears.

While we are meekly kneeling We shall behold her rise, Our Father's love revealing, An angel in disguise.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

GOD'S CARE

Not a brooklet floweth Onward to the sea, Not a sunbeam gloweth On its bosom free, Not a seed unfoldeth To the glorious air, But our Father holdeth It within his care.

Not a floweret fadeth, Not a star grows dim, Not a cloud o'ershadeth, But 'tis marked by him. Dream not that thy gladness God doth fail to see; Think not in thy sadness He forgetteth thee.

Not a tie is broken, Not a hope laid low, Not a farewell spoken, But our God doth know. Every hair is numbered, Every tear is weighed In the changeless balance Wisest Love has made.

Power eternal resteth In his changeless hand; Love immortal hasteth Swift at his command, Faith can firmly trust him In the darkest hour, For the keys she holdeth To his love and power.

"I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE"

Among so many can he care? Can special love be everywhere? A myriad homes—a myriad ways— And God's eye over every place?

Over; but in? The world is full; A grand omnipotence must rule; But is there life that doth abide With mine own, loving, side by side?

So many, and so wide abroad; Can any heart have all of God? From the great spaces vague and dim, May one small household gather him?

I asked; my soul bethought of this: In just that very place of his Where he hath put and keepeth you, God hath no other thing to do.

—Adeline Dutton Train Whitney.

CONSTANT CARE

How gentle God's commands! How kind his precepts are! Come, cast your burdens on the Lord, And trust his constant care.

Beneath his watchful eye His saints securely dwell; That hand which bears all nature up Shall guard his children well.

Why should this anxious load Press down your weary mind? Haste to your heavenly Father's throne And sweet refreshment find.

His goodness stands approved, Unchanged from day to day; I'll drop my burden at his feet, And bear a song away.

—Philip Doddridge.

THOU KNOWEST

Thou knowest, Lord, the weariness and sorrow Of the sad heart that comes to thee for rest. Cares of to-day and burdens for to-morrow, Blessings implored, and sins to be confest, I come before thee, at thy gracious word, And lay them at thy feet. Thou knowest, Lord!

Thou knowest all the past—how long and blindly On the dark mountains the lost wanderer strayed, How the good Shepherd followed, and how kindly He bore it home upon his shoulders laid, And healed the bleeding wounds, and soothed the pain, And brought back life, and hope, and strength again.

Thou knowest all the present—each temptation, Each toilsome duty, each foreboding fear; All to myself assigned of tribulation, Or to beloved ones than self more dear! All pensive memories, as I journey on, Longings for sunshine and for music gone!

Thou knowest all the future—gleams of gladness By stormy clouds too quickly overcast— Hours of sweet fellowship and parting sadness, And the dark river to be crossed at last: Oh, what could confidence and hope afford To tread this path, but this—Thou knowest, Lord!

Thou knowest not alone as God—all-knowing— As man our mortal weakness thou hast proved On earth; with purest sympathies o'erflowing, O Saviour, thou hast wept, and thou hast loved. And love and sorrow still to thee may come And find a hiding-place, a rest, a home.

Therefore I come, thy gentle call obeying, And lay my sins and sorrows at thy feet; On everlasting strength my weakness staying, Clothed in thy robe of righteousness complete. Then rising, and refreshed, I leave thy throne, And follow on to know as I am known!

A GREAT DIFFERENCE

Men lose their ships, the eager things To try their luck at sea, But none can tell, by note or count, How many there may be.

One turneth east, another south— They never come again, And then we know they must have sunk, But neither how nor when.

God sends his happy birds abroad— "They're less than ships," say we; No moment passes but he knows How many there should be.

One buildeth high, another low, With just a bird's light care— If only one, perchance, doth fall, God knoweth when and where.

HE CARETH FOR YOU

If I could only surely know That all these things that tire me so Were noticed by my Lord. The pang that cuts me like a knife, The lesser pains of daily life, The noise, the weariness, the strife, What peace it would afford!

I wonder if he really shares In all my little human cares, This mighty King of kings. If he who guides each blazing star Through realms of boundless space afar Without confusion, sound or jar, Stoops to these petty things.

It seems to me, if sure of this, Blent with each ill would come such bliss That I might covet pain, And deem whatever brought to me The loving thought of Deity, And sense of Christ's sweet sympathy, No loss, but richest gain.

Dear Lord, my heart hath not a doubt That thou dost compass me about With sympathy divine. The love for me once crucified Is not a love to leave my side, But waiteth ever to divide Each smallest care of mine.

MOMENT BY MOMENT

Never a trial that He is not there; Never a burden that He doth not bear; Never a sorrow that He doth not share. Moment by moment I'm under his care.

Never a heartache, and never a groan, Never a tear-drop, and never a moan, Never a danger but there, on the throne, Moment by moment, He thinks of his own.

Never a weakness that He doth not feel; Never a sickness that He cannot heal. Moment by moment, in woe or in weal, Jesus, my Saviour, abides with me still.

—Daniel W. Whittle.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends Rough-hew them how we will.

—William Shakespeare.

EVENING HYMN

It is the evening hour, And thankfully, Father, thy weary child Has come to thee.

I lean my aching head Upon thy breast, And there, and only there, I am at rest.

Thou knowest all my life, Each petty sin, Nothing is hid from thee Without, within.

All that I have or am Is wholly thine, So is my soul at peace, For thou art mine.

To-morrow's dawn may find Me here, or there; It matters little, since thy love Is everywhere!

THE BELIEVER'S HERITAGE

No care can come where God doth guard; No ill befall whom he doth keep; In safety hid, of trouble rid, I lay me down in peace and sleep.

I wholly love thy holy name; I hail with glee thy glorious will; Where'er I go, 'tis joy to know That thou, my King, art near me still.

Thy power immense, consummate, grand, Thy wisdom, known to thee alone, Thy perfect love, all thought above, Make me a sharer in thy throne.

With thee abiding none can fear, Nor lack, of every good possessed; Thy grace avails, whate'er assails, And I in thee am fully blest.

Then leap, my heart, exultant, strong, Cast every doubt and weight away; Give thanks and praise to God always, For he will guide to perfect day!

—James Mudge.

"HE CARETH FOR THEE"

What can it mean? Is it aught to him That the nights are long and the days are dim? Can he be touched by griefs I bear Which sadden the heart and whiten the hair? Around his throne are eternal calms, And strong, glad music of happy psalms, And bliss unruffled by any strife. How can he care for my poor life?

And yet I want him to care for me While I live in this world where the sorrows be; When the lights die down on the path I take, When strength is feeble, and friends forsake, When love and music, that once did bless, Have left me to silence and loneliness, And life's song changes to sobbing prayers— Then my heart cries out for God who cares.

When shadows hang o'er me the whole day long, And my spirit is bowed with shame and wrong; When I am not good, and the deeper shade Of conscious sin makes my heart afraid; And the busy world has too much to do To stay in its course to help me through, And I long for a Saviour—can it be That the God of the Universe cares for me?

Oh, wonderful story of deathless love! Each child is dear to that heart above; He fights for me when I cannot fight; He comforts me in the gloom of night; He lifts the burden, for he is strong; He stills the sigh and awakes the song; The sorrow that bowed me down he bears, And loves and pardons because he cares.

Let all who are sad take heart again; We are not alone in hours of pain; Our Father stoops from his throne above To soothe and quiet us with his love. He leaves us not when the storm is high, And we have safety, for he is nigh. Can it be trouble which he doth share? O rest in peace, for the Lord does care.

CAST THY BURDEN ON THE LORD

Thou who art touched with feeling of our woes, Let me on thee my heavy burden cast! My aching, anguished heart on thee repose. Leaving with thee the sad mysterious past; Let me submissive bow and kiss the rod; Let me "be still, and know that thou art God."

Why should my harassed agitated mind Go round and round this terrible event? Striving in vain some brighter side to find, Some cause why all this anguish has been sent? Do I indeed that sacred truth believe— Thou dost not willingly afflict and grieve?

My lovely gourd is withered in an hour! I droop, I faint beneath the scorching sun; My Shepherd, lead me to some sheltering bower; There where thy little flock "lie down at noon"; Though of my dearest earthly joy bereft Thou art my portion still; thou, thou, my God, art left.

—Charlotte Elliott.

Says God: "Who comes towards me an inch through doubtings dim, In blazing light I do approach a yard towards him."

—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

The light of love is round His feet, His paths are never dim; And He comes nigh to us, when we Dare not come nigh to Him.

—Frederick William Faber.

Not in our waking hours alone His constancy and care are known, But locked in slumber fast and deep He giveth to us while we sleep.

—Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

HIS CARE

God holds the key of all unknown, And I am glad. If other hands should hold the key, Or if he trusted it to me, I might be sad.

What if to-morrow's cares were here Without its rest? I'd rather he unlock the day, And as the hours swing open say, "Thy will be best."

The very dimness of my sight Makes me secure; For groping in my misty way, I feel his hand; I hear him say, "My help is sure."

I cannot read his future plan, But this I know: I have the smiling of his face, And all the refuge of his grace, While here below.

Enough; this covers all my want, And so I rest; For what I cannot he can see, And in his care I sure shall be Forever blest.

—John Parker.

Forever, from the hand that takes One blessing from us, others fall; And soon or late our Father makes His perfect recompense to all.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Nothing pays but God, Served—in work obscure done honestly, Or vote for truth unpopular, or faith maintained To ruinous convictions.

—James Russell Lowell.

He did God's will, to him all one, If on the earth or in the sun.

—Robert Browning.

I am Part of that Power, not understood, Which always wills the bad And always works the good. (Mephistopheles, in Faust.)

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

I have no answer, for myself or thee, Save that I learned beside my mother's knee: "All is of God that is, and is to be; And God is good." Let this suffice us still, Resting in childlike trust upon his will Who moves to his great ends unthwarted by the ill.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

He knows, he loves, he cares, Nothing his truth can dim; He gives his very best to those Who leave the choice to him.

No help! nay, it is not so! Though human help be far, thy God is nigh. Who feeds the ravens hears his children's cry; He's near thee wheresoe'er thy footsteps roam, And he will guide thee, light thee, help thee home.

God sees me though I see him not; I know I shall not be forgot; For though I be the smallest dot, It is his mercy shapes my lot.

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

Teach me to answer still, Whate'er my lot may be, To all thou sendest me, of good or ill, "All goeth as God will."

Dance, O my soul! 'tis God doth play; His will makes music all the day; That song which rings the world around This heart of mine shall ever sound.

—James Mudge.

Let one more attest: I have seen God's hand through a life time, And all was for best.

—Robert Browning.



GOD'S WILL

OBEDIENCE, DIVINE UNION

THE WILL OF GOD

I worship thee, sweet will of God! And all thy ways adore. And every day I live I seem To love thee more and more.

Thou wert the end, the blessed rule Of our Saviour's toils and tears; Thou wert the passion of his heart Those three and thirty years.

And he hath breathed into my soul A special love of thee, A love to lose my will in his, And by that loss be free.

I love to kiss each print where thou Hast set thine unseen feet; I cannot fear thee, blessed will! Thine empire is so sweet.

When obstacles and trials seem Like prison walls to be, I do the little I can do, And leave the rest to thee.

I know not what it is to doubt; My heart is ever gay; I run no risk, for come what will Thou always hast thy way.

I have no cares, O blessed will! For all my cares are thine; I live in triumph, Lord, for thou Hast made thy triumphs mine.

And when it seems no chance or change From grief can set me free, Hope finds its strength in helplessness, And gayly waits on thee.

Man's weakness waiting upon God Its end can never miss, For man on earth no work can do More angel-like than this.

Ride on, ride on triumphantly, Thou glorious Will! ride on; Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take The road that thou hast gone.

He always wins who sides with God, To him no chance is lost; God's will is sweetest to him when It triumphs at his cost.

Ill that he blesses is our good, And unblest good is ill; And all is right that seems most wrong If it be his sweet will!

—Frederick William Faber.

THE WILL DIVINE

Thy will, O God, is joy to me, A gladsome thing; For in it naught but love I see, Whate'er it bring.

No bed of pain, no rack of woe— Thy will is good; A glory wheresoe'er I go, My daily food.

Within the circle of thy will All things abide; So I, exulting, find no ill Where thou dost guide.

In that resplendent will of thine I calmly rest; Triumphantly I make it mine, And count it best.

To doubt and gloom and care and fear I yield no jot; Thy choice I choose, with soul sincere, Thrice happy lot!

In all the small events that fall From day to day I mark thy hand, I hear thy call, And swift obey.

I walk by faith, not sense or sight; Calm faith in thee; My peace endures, my way is bright, My heart is free.

Unfaltering trust, complete content, The days ensphere, Each meal becomes a sacrament, And heaven is here.

—James Mudge.

THE TREE GOD PLANTS

The wind that blows can never kill The tree God plants; It bloweth east, it bloweth west, The tender leaves have little rest, But any wind that blows is best; The tree God plants Strikes deeper root, grows higher still, Spreads wider boughs, for God's good will Meets all its wants.

There is no frost hath power to blight The tree God shields; The roots are warm beneath soft snows, And when Spring comes it surely knows, And every bud to blossom grows. The tree God shields Grows on apace by day and night, Till sweet to taste and fair to sight Its fruit it yields.

There is no storm hath power to blast The tree God knows; No thunderbolt, nor beating rain, Nor lightning flash, nor hurricane— When they are spent it doth remain. The tree God knows Through every tempest standeth fast, And from its first day to its last Still fairer grows.

If in the soul's still garden-place A seed God sows— A little seed—it soon will grow, And far and near all men will know For heavenly lands he bids it blow. A seed God sows, And up it springs by day and night; Through life, through death, it groweth right; Forever grows.

—Lillian E. Barr.

GOD'S WILL

Take thine own way with me, dear Lord, Thou canst not otherwise than bless. I launch me forth upon a sea Of boundless love and tenderness.

I could not choose a larger bliss Than to be wholly thine; and mine A will whose highest joy is this, To ceaselessly unclasp in thine.

I will not fear thee, O my God! The days to come can only bring Their perfect sequences of love, Thy larger, deeper comforting.

Within the shadow of this love, Loss doth transmute itself to gain; Faith veils earth's sorrow in its light, And straightway lives above her pain.

We are not losers thus; we share The perfect gladness of the Son, Not conquered—for, behold, we reign; Conquered and Conqueror are one.

Thy wonderful, grand will, my God, Triumphantly I make it mine; And faith shall breathe her glad "Amen" To every dear command of thine.

Beneath the splendor of thy choice, Thy perfect choice for me, I rest; Outside it now I dare not live, Within it I must needs be blest.

Meanwhile my spirit anchors calm In grander regions still than this; The fair, far-shining latitudes Of that yet unexplored bliss.

Then may thy perfect glorious will Be evermore fulfilled in me, And make my life an answering chord Of glad, responsive harmony.

Oh! it is life indeed to live Within this kingdom strangely sweet; And yet we fear to enter in, And linger with unwilling feet.

We fear this wondrous will of thine Because we have not reached thy heart. Not venturing our all on thee We may not know how good thou art.

—Jean Sophia Pigott.

Deep at the heart of all our pain, In loss as surely as in gain, His love abideth still. Let come what will my heart shall stand On this firm rock at his right hand, "Father, it is thy will."

—John White Chadwick.

THE CARPENTER

O Lord! at Joseph's humble bench Thy hands did handle saw and plane, Thy hammer nails did drive and clench, Avoiding knot, and humoring grain.

That thou didst seem thou wast indeed, In sport thy tools thou didst not use, Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need, The laborer's hire too nice refuse.

Lord! might I be but as a saw, A plane, a chisel in thy hand! No, Lord! I take it back in awe, Such prayer for me is far too grand.

I pray, O Master! let me lie, As on thy bench the favored wood; Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply, And work me into something good.

No! no! Ambition holy, high, Urges for more than both to pray; Come in, O gracious force, I cry, O Workman! share my shed of clay.

Then I at bench, or desk, or oar, With last, or needle, net, or pen, As thou in Nazareth of yore, Shall do the Father's will again.

—George Macdonald.

THE DIVINE MAJESTY

The Lord our God is clothed with might, The winds obey his will; He speaks, and in his heavenly height The rolling sun stands still.

Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land With threatening aspect roar; The Lord uplifts his awful hand, And chains you to the shore.

Ye winds of night, your force combine; Without his high behest, Ye shall not, in the mountain pine, Disturb the sparrow's nest.

His voice sublime is heard afar; In distant peals it dies; He yokes the whirlwind to his car And sweeps the howling skies.

Ye sons of earth, in reverence bend; Ye nations, wait his nod; And bid the choral song ascend To celebrate our God.

—H. Kirke White.

THOU SWEET, BELOVED WILL OF GOD

Thou sweet, beloved will of God, My anchor ground, my fortress hill, My spirit's silent, fair abode, In thee I hide me and am still.

O Will, that willest good alone, Lead thou the way, thou guidest best; A little child, I follow on, And, trusting, lean upon thy breast.

Thy beautiful sweet will, my God, Holds fast in its sublime embrace My captive will, a gladsome bird, Prisoned in such a realm of grace.

Within this place of certain good Love evermore expands her wings, Or, nestling in thy perfect choice, Abides content with what it brings.

Oh lightest burden, sweetest yoke! It lifts, it bears my happy soul, It giveth wings to this poor heart; My freedom is thy grand control.

Upon God's will I lay me down, As child upon its mother's breast; No silken couch, nor softest bed, Could ever give me such deep rest.

Thy wonderful grand will, my God, With triumph now I make it mine; And faith shall cry a joyous Yes! To every dear command of thine.

AS IT WAS TO BE

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare! The spray of the tempest is white in air; The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.

The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb; And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, And I shall not join in the chase to-day.

But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was builded upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake's shock.

—Francis Bret Harte.

USEFUL ACCORDING TO GOD'S WILL

Let me not die before I've done for thee My earthly work, whatever it may be; Call me not hence with mission unfulfilled; Let me not leave my space of ground untilled; Impress this truth upon me, that not one Can do my portion that I leave undone.

Then give me strength all faithfully to toil, Converting barren earth to fruitful soil. I long to be an instrument of thine For gathering worshipers into thy shrine: To be the means one human soul to save From the dark terrors of a hopeless grave.

Yet most I want a spirit of content To work where'er thou'lt wish my labor spent, Whether at home or in a stranger's clime, In days of joy or sorrow's sterner time; I want a spirit passive to be still, And by thy power to do thy holy will.

And when the prayer unto my lips doth rise, "Before a new home doth my soul surprise, Let me accomplish some great work for thee," Subdue it, Lord; let my petition be, "O make me useful in this world of thine, In ways according to thy will, not mine."

AS THOU WILT

My Jesus, as thou wilt: O may thy will be mine; Into thy hand of love I would my all resign. Through sorrow or through joy Conduct me as thine own, And help me still to say, "My Lord, thy will be done."

My Jesus, as thou wilt: If needy here, and poor, Give me thy people's bread, Their portion rich and sure. The manna of thy word Let my soul feed upon; And if all else should fail— My Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as thou wilt: If among thorns I go, Still sometimes here and there Let a few roses blow. But thou on earth along The thorny path hast gone; Then lead me after thee. My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt: Though seen through many a tear, Let not my star of hope Grow dim or disappear. Since thou on earth hast wept And sorrowed oft alone, If I must weep with thee, My Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as thou wilt: If loved ones must depart Suffer not sorrow's flood To overwhelm my heart. For they are blest with thee, Their race and conflict won; Let me but follow them. My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt: When death itself draws nigh, To thy dear wounded side I would for refuge fly. Leaning on thee, to go Where thou before hast gone; The rest as thou shalt please. My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt: All shall be well for me; Each changing future scene I gladly trust with thee. Straight to my home above, I travel calmly on, And sing in life or death, "My Lord, thy will be done."

—Benjamin Schmolke, tr. by J. Borthwick.

GREAT AND SMALL

There is no great nor small in Nature's plan, Bulk is but fancy in the mind of man; A raindrop is as wondrous as a star, Near is not nearest, farthest is not far; And suns and planets in the vast serene Are lost as midges in the summer sheen, Born in their season; and we live and die Creatures of Time, lost in Eternity.

—Charles Mackay.

GOD'S WILL BE DONE

My God, my Father, while I stray Far from my home, on life's rough way, O teach me from my heart to say, "Thy will be done!"

Though dark my path, and sad my lot, Let me "be still," and murmur not; O breathe the prayer divinely taught, "Thy will be done!"

What though in lonely grief I sigh For friends beloved, no longer nigh, Submissive still would I reply "Thy will be done!"

Though thou hast called me to resign What most I prized, it ne'er was mine; I have but yielded what was thine; "Thy will be done!"

Should grief or sickness waste away My life in premature decay; My Father! still I strive to say, "Thy will be done!"

Let but my fainting heart be blest With thy sweet Spirit for its guest; My God! to thee I leave the rest: "Thy will be done!"

Renew my will from day to day! Blend it with thine; and take away All that now makes it hard to say, "Thy will be done!"

Then, when on earth I breathe no more The prayer oft mixed with tears before, I'll sing upon a happier shore: "Thy will be done!"

—Charlotte Elliott.

THE TWO ANGELS

All is of God! If he but wave his hand, The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door?

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

AMEN!

I cannot say, Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day, I joy in these; But I can say That I had rather walk this rugged way, If Him it please.

I cannot feel That all is well when darkening clouds conceal The shining sun; But then I know God lives and loves, and say, since it is so, Thy will be done.

I cannot speak In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek Show I am sad: But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek Until made glad.

I do not see Why God should e'en permit some things to be, When He is love; But I can see, Though often dimly, through the mystery His hand above!

I do not know Where falls the seed that I have tried to sow With greatest care; But I shall know The meaning of each waiting hour below Sometime, somewhere!

I do not look Upon the present, nor in Nature's book, To read my fate; But I do look For promised blessings in God's holy Book; And I can wait.

I may not try To keep the hot tears back—but hush that sigh, "It might have been"; And try to still Each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will Respond "Amen!"

—Miss Ophelia G. Browning.

AS HE WILLS

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Alike they're needful for the flower; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment. As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

Can loving children e'er reprove, With murmurs, whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

O ne'er will I at life repine— Enough that thou hast made it mine; When falls the shadow cold of death I yet will sing with parting breath, As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

—Sarah Flower Adams.

ACCORDING TO THY WILL

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through, What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise, and move, and love, and smile, and pray For one more day.

And lying down at night, for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which harkens ever, "Lord, within thy keeping, How should I fear? And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, Do thou thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All night long; and when the morning splendor Flashed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile—could calmly say, "It is his day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clew— What should I do?

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master! Other than this, Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by thee?

Step by step, feeling thee close beside me, Although unseen; Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee Or heavens serene, Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay.

I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth Thy counsels wise; Along the path no deepening shadow stealeth; No voice replies To all my questioning thought the time to tell, And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always; Through a long century's ripe fruition Or a short day's; Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait If thou come late!

—Susan Coolidge.

God's in his heaven, All's right with the world.

—Robert Browning.

WHAT PLEASETH GOD

What pleaseth God with joy receive; Though storm-winds rage and billows heave And earth's foundations all be rent, Be comforted; to thee is sent What pleaseth God.

God's will is best; to this resigned, How sweetly rests the weary mind! Seek, then, this blessed conformity, Desiring but to do and be What pleaseth God.

God's thoughts are wisest; human schemes Are vain delusions, idle dreams; Our purposes are frail and weak; With earthly mind we seldom seek What pleaseth God.

God is the holiest; and his ways Are full of kindness, truth, and grace; His blessing crowns our earnest prayer, While worldlings scorn, and little care What pleaseth God.

God's is the truest heart; his love Nor time, nor life, nor death, can move; To those his mercies daily flow, Whose chief concern it is to know What pleaseth God.

Omnipotent he reigns on high And watcheth o'er thy destiny; While sea, and earth, and air produce For daily pleasure, daily use, What pleaseth God.

He loves his sheep, and when they stray He leads them back to wisdom's way; Their faithless, wandering hearts to turn, Gently chastising, till they learn What pleaseth God.

He knows our every need, and grants A rich supply to all our wants; No good withholds from those whose mind Is bent with earnest zeal to find What pleaseth God.

Then let the world, with stubborn will, Its earthborn pleasures follow still; Be this, my soul, thy constant aim, Thy riches, honor, glory, fame, What pleaseth God.

Should care and grief thy portion be, To thy strong refuge ever flee; For all his creatures but perform, In peace and tumult, calm and storm, What pleaseth God.

Faith lays her hand on God's rich grace, And hope gives patience for the race; These virtues in thy heart enshrined, Thy portion thou wilt surely find, What pleaseth God.

In heaven thy glorious portion is; There is thy throne, thy crown, thy bliss; There shalt thou taste, and hear, and see, There shalt thou ever do and be, What pleaseth God.

—Paul Gerhardt.

"THE SPLENDOR OF GOD'S WILL"

O words of golden music Caught from the harps on high, Which find a glorious anthem Where we have found a sigh, And peal their grandest praises Just where ours faint and die.

O words of holy radiance Shining on every tear Till it becomes a rainbow, Reflecting, bright and clear, Our Father's love and glory So wonderful, so dear!

O words of sparkling power, Of insight full and deep! Shall they not enter other hearts In a grand and gladsome sweep, And lift the lives to songs of joy That only droop and weep?

And O, it is a splendor, A glow of majesty, A mystery of beauty, If we will only see; A very cloud of glory Enfolding you and me.

A splendor that is lighted At one transcendent flame, The wondrous love, the perfect love, Our Father's sweetest name; For his very name and essence And his will are all the same.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

NOT BY CHANCE

No chance has brought this ill to me; 'Tis God's sweet will, so let it be; He seeth what I cannot see.

There is a need-be for each pain, And he will make it one day plain That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like as a piece of tapestry, Viewed from the back, appears to be Naught but threads tangled hopelessly,

But in the front a picture fair Rewards the worker for his care, Proving his skill and patience rare.

Thou art the workman, I the frame; Lord, for the glory of thy name, Perfect thine image on the same!

SUBMISSION TO GOD

Whate'er God wills let that be done; His will is ever wisest; His grace will all thy hope outrun Who to that faith arisest. The gracious Lord Will help afford; He chastens with forbearing; Who God believes, And to him cleaves, Shall not be left despairing.

My God is my sure confidence, My light, and my existence; His counsel is beyond my sense, But stirs no weak resistance; His word declares The very hairs Upon my head are numbered; His mercy large Holds me in charge With care that never slumbered.

There comes a day when at his will The pulse of nature ceases. I think upon it, and am still, Let come whate'er he pleases. To him I trust My soul, my dust, When flesh and spirit sever; The Christ we sing Has plucked the sting Away from death forever.

—Albert of Brandenburg, 1586.

THY WILL BE DONE

We see not, know not; all our way Is night; with thee alone is day. From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift: Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint. But who are we to make complaint Or dare to plead, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease? Thy will be done!

We take, with solemn thankfulness, Our burden up, nor ask it less, And count it joy that even we May suffer, serve, or wait for thee, Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace thy picture's wise design, And thank thee that our age supplies Its dark relief of sacrifice. Thy will be done!

And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press; If from thy ordeal's heated bars Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by thee, our present pain Be liberty's eternal gain, Thy will be done.

Strike, thou the Master, we thy keys, The anthem of the destinies! The minor of thy loftier strain, Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, Thy will be done!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

There is no sense, as I can see, In mortals such as you and me A-faulting nature's wise intents And locking horns with Providence.

It is no use to grumble and complain; It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice; When God sorts out the weather and sends rain— Why, rain's my choice.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

THY WILL

Not in dumb resignation We lift our hands on high; Not like the nerveless fatalist, Content to do and die. Our faith springs like the eagle Who soars to meet the sun, And cries, exulting, unto thee, "O Lord, thy will be done!"

Thy will! It bids the weak be strong; It bids the strong be just; No lip to fawn, no hand to beg, No brow to seek the dust. Wherever man oppresses man, Beneath the liberal sun, O Lord, be there! Thine arm make bare! Thy righteous will be done!

—John Hay.

AS GOD WILL

All goeth but God's will! The fairest garden flower Fades after its brief hour Of brightness. Still, This is but God's good will.

All goeth but God's will! The brightest, dearest day Doth swiftly pass away, And darkest night Succeeds the vision bright.

But still strong-hearted be, Yea, though the night be drear; How sad and long soe'er Its gloom may be, This darkness, too, shall flee.

Weep not yon grave beside! Dear friend, he is not gone; God's angel soon this stone Shall roll aside. Yea, death shall not abide!

Earth's anguish, too, shall go, O then be strong, my soul! When sorrows o'er thee roll Be still, and know 'Tis God's will worketh so.

Dear Lord and God, incline Thine ear unto my call! O grant me that in all, This will of mine May still be one with thine!

Teach me to answer still, Whate'er my lot may be, To all thou sendest me, Of good or ill; "All goeth as God will."

—Alice Williams.

THE SHADOW OF THE GREAT ROCK

Sweet is the solace of thy love, My heavenly Friend, to me, While through the hidden way of faith I journey home with thee, Learning by quiet thankfulness As a dear child to be.

Though from the shadow of thy peace My feet would often stray, Thy mercy follows all my steps, And will not turn away; Yea, thou wilt comfort me at last As none beneath thee may.

No other comforter I need If thou, O Lord, be mine; Thy rod will bring my spirit low, Thy fire my heart refine, And cause me pain that none may feel By other love than thine.

Then in the secret of my soul, Though hosts my peace invade, Though through a waste and weary land My lonely way be made, Thou, even thou, wilt comfort me; I need not be afraid.

O there is nothing in the world To weigh against thy will; Even the dark times I dread the most Thy covenant fulfill; And when the pleasant morning dawns I find thee with me still.

Still in the solitary place I would awhile abide. Till with the solace of thy love My soul is satisfied, And all my hopes of happiness Stay calmly at thy side.

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

—Anna Letitia Waring.

RABIA

There was of old a Moslem saint Named Rabia. On her bed she lay Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint. "Send for the holy men to pray." And two were sent. The first drew near: "The prayers of no man are sincere Who does not bow beneath the rod, And bear the chastening strokes of God." Whereto the second, more severe: "The prayers of no man are sincere Who does not in the rod rejoice And make the strokes he bears his choice." Then she, who felt that in such pain The love of self did still remain, Answered, "No prayers can be sincere When they from whose wrung hearts they fall Are not as I am, lying here, Who long since have forgotten all. Dear Lord of love! There is no pain." So Rabia, and was well again.

—Edmund Clarence Stedman.

THREE STAGES OF PIETY

Rabia, sick upon her bed, By two saints was visited:

Holy Malik, Hassan wise, Men of mark in Moslem eyes.

Hassan said: "Whose prayer is pure Will God's chastisement endure."

Malik, from a deeper sense, Uttered his experience:

"He who loves his Master's choice Will in chastisement rejoice."

Rabia saw some selfish will In their maxims lingering still,

And replied: "O men of grace! He who sees his Master's face

"Will not in his prayer recall That he is chastised at all."

—Arabian, tr. by James Freeman Clarke, from the German of Tholuck.

(Rabia was a very holy Arabian woman who lived in the second century of the Hegira, or the eighth century of our era.)

PRAYER'S GRACE

Round holy Rabia's suffering bed The wise men gathered, gazing gravely. "Daughter of God!" the youngest said, "Endure thy Father's chastening bravely; They who have steeped their souls in prayer Can any anguish calmly bear."

She answered not, and turned aside, Though not reproachfully nor sadly. "Daughter of God!" the eldest cried, "Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly; They who have learned to pray aright From pain's dark well draw up delight."

Then spake she out: "Your words are fair; But, oh, the truth lies deeper still. I know not, when absorbed in prayer, Pleasure or pain, or good or ill. They who God's face can understand Feel not the workings of his hand."

—Monckton Milnes.

I LOVE THY WILL

I love thy will, O God! Thy blessed, perfect will, In which this once rebellious heart Lies satisfied and still.

I love thy will, O God! It is my joy, my rest; It glorifies my common task, It makes each trial blest.

I love thy will, O God! The sunshine or the rain; Some days are bright with praise, and some Sweet with accepted pain.

I love thy will, O God! O hear my earnest plea, That as thy will is done in heaven It may be done in me!

—Bessie Pegg MacLaughlin.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

—Tr. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

DAILY BREAD

I pray, with meek hands on my breast, "Thy will be done, thy kingdom come," But shouldst thou call my dear ones home Should I still say, "'Tis best; Thy will be done"?

I cannot tell. I probe my heart With sharpest instruments of pain, And listen if the sweet refrain Still wells up through the smart— "Thy will be done!"

I cannot tell. I yield the quest, Content if only day by day My God shall give me grace to say, "Father, thou knowest best; Thy will be done!"

He gives no strength for coming ill, Until its advent. Then he rolls His love in on his waiting souls, Sure of their sweet "Thy will, Thy will be done!"

"Give us this day our daily bread"— So prayed the Christ, and so will I; Father, my daily bread supply, Or, if I go unfed, "Thy will be done!"

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

APPROACHES

When thou turnest away from ill Christ is this side of thy hill.

When thou turnest towards good Christ is walking in thy wood.

When thy heart says, "Father, pardon!" Then the Lord is in thy garden.

When stern duty wakes to watch Then his hand is on the latch.

But when hope thy song doth rouse Then the Lord is in the house.

When to love is all thy wit Christ doth at thy table sit.

When God's will is thy heart's pole Then is Christ thy very soul.

—George Macdonald.

SUBMISSION

But that thou art my wisdom, Lord, And both mine eyes are thine. My mind would be extremely stirred For missing my design.

Were it not better to bestow Some place and power on me? Then should thy praises with me grow, And share in my degree.

But when I thus dispute and grieve I do resume my sight; And, pilfering what I once did give, Disseize thee of thy right.

How know I, if thou shouldst me raise. That I should then raise thee? Perhaps great places and thy praise Do not so well agree.

Wherefore unto my gift I stand; I will no more advise; Only do thou lend me a hand, Since thou hast both mine eyes.

—George Herbert.

YOUTH'S WARNING

Beware, exulting youth, beware, When life's young pleasures woo, That ere you yield yon shrine your heart, And keep your conscience true! For sake of silver spent to-day Why pledge to-morrow's gold? Or in hot blood implant remorse, To grow when blood is cold? If wrong you do, if false you play, In summer among the flowers, You must atone, you must repay, In winter among the showers.

To turn the balances of heaven Surpasses mortal power; For every white there is a black, For every sweet a sour. For every up there is a down, For every folly shame, And retribution follows guilt As burning follows flame. If wrong you do, if false you play, In summer among the flowers, You must atone, you must repay In winter among the showers.

—George Macdonald.

THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS

I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, Thy fields, thy mountains hoar, Thy wind that bloweth where it lists; Thy will, I love it more.

I love thy hidden truth to seek All round, in sea, on shore; The arts whereby like gods we speak; Thy will to me is more.

I love thy men and women, Lord, The children round thy door, Calm thoughts that inward strength afford; Thy will, O Lord, is more.

But when thy will my life shall hold, Thine to the very core, The world which that same will did mold I shall love ten times more.

—George Macdonald.

No child of man may perish ere his time arrives; A thousand arrows pierce him and he still survives; But when the moment fixed in heaven's eternal will Comes round, a single blade of yielding grass may kill.

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

God gives to man the power to strike or miss you; It is not thy foe who did the thing. The arrow from the bow may seem to issue, But we know an archer drew the string.

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

On two days it steads not to run from thy grave: The appointed and the unappointed day; On the first neither balm nor physician can save, Nor thee on the second the universe slay.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ROUNDEL

I do not know thy final will, It is too good for me to know. Thou willest that I mercy show, That I take heed and do no ill, That I the needy warm and fill, Nor stones at any sinner throw; But I know not thy final will, It is too good for me to know.

I know thy love unspeakable— For love's sake able to send woe! To find thine own thou lost didst go, And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill! How should I know thy final will, Godwise too good for me to know!

—George Macdonald.

One prayer I have—all prayers in one— When I am wholly thine: Thy will, my God, thy will be done, And let that will be mine; All-wise, almighty, and all-good, In thee I firmly trust, Thy ways, unknown or understood, Are merciful and just.

Fear him, ye saints, and you will then Have nothing else to fear; Make you his service your delight, He'll make your wants his care.

The best will is our Father's will, And we may rest there calm and still; O make it hour by hour thine own, And wish for naught but that alone Which pleases God.

—Paul Gerhardt.

It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be He, too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood!

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Rabbi Jehosha had the skill To know that heaven is in God's will.

—James Russell Lowell.



GOD'S PRESENCE

POSSESSION, SATISFACTION, REFLECTION

THE SECRET OF HIS PRESENCE

In the secret of his presence I am kept from strife of tongues; His pavilion is around me, And within are ceaseless songs! Stormy winds, his word fulfilling, Beat without, but cannot harm, For the Master's voice is stilling Storm and tempest to a calm.

In the secret of his presence All the darkness disappears; For a sun that knows no setting, Throws a rainbow on my tears. So the day grows ever lighter, Broadening to the perfect noon; So the day grows ever brighter, Heaven is coming, near and soon.

In the secret of his presence Never more can foes alarm; In the shadow of the Highest, I can meet them with a psalm; For the strong pavilion hides me, Turns their fiery darts aside, And I know, whate'er betides me, I shall live because he died!

In the secret of his presence Is a sweet, unbroken rest; Pleasures, joys, in glorious fullness, Making earth like Eden blest; So my peace grows deep and deeper, Widening as it nears the sea, For my Saviour is my keeper, Keeping mine and keeping me!

—Henry Burton.

EYESERVICE

Eyeservice let me give The while I live; In shadow or in light, By day or night, With all my heart and skill— Eyeservice still!

Yes, for the eyes I'll serve— Nor faint nor swerve— Are not the eyes of man, That lightly scan, But God's, that pierce and see The whole of me!

Beneath the farthest skies, Where morning flies, In heaven or in hell, If I should dwell, In dark or daylight fair, The Eyes are there!

No trembling fugitive, Boldly I live If, as in that pure sight, I live aright, Yielding with hand and will Eyeservice still!

—Amos R. Wells.

OMNIPRESENCE

Lord of all being, throned afar, Thy glory flames from sun and star; Center and soul of every sphere, Yet to each loving heart how near!

Sun of our life, thy quickening ray Sheds on our path the glow of day; Star of our hope, thy softened light Cheers the long watches of the night.

Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn; Our noontide is thy gracious dawn; Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign; All, save the clouds of sin, are thine!

Lord of all life, below, above, Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, Before thy ever-blazing throne We ask no luster of our own.

Grant us thy truth to make us free, And kindling hearts that burn for thee, Till all thy living altars claim One holy light, one heavenly flame.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE CHERUBIC PILGRIM

God's spirit falls on me as dew drops on a rose, If I but like a rose my heart to him unclose.

The soul wherein God dwells—what Church can holier be? Becomes a walking tent of heavenly majesty.

Lo! in the silent night a child to God is born, And all is brought again that ere was lost or lorn.

Could but thy soul, O man, become a silent night God would be born in thee and set all things aright.

Ye know God but as Lord, hence Lord his name with ye, I feel him but as love, and Love his name with me.

Though Christ a thousand times in Bethlehem be born, If he's not born in thee thy soul is all forlorn.

The cross on Golgotha will never save thy soul, The cross in thine own heart alone can make thee whole.

Christ rose not from the dead, Christ still is in the grave If thou for whom he died art still of sin the slave.

In all eternity no tone can be so sweet As where man's heart with God in unison doth beat.

Whate'er thou lovest, man, that, too, become thou must; God, if thou lovest God, dust, if thou lovest dust.

Ah, would thy heart but be a manger for the birth, God would once more become a child on earth.

Immeasurable is the highest; who but knows it? And yet a human heart can perfectly enclose it.

—Johannes Scheffler.

THE LARGER VIEW

In buds upon some Aaron's rod The childlike ancient saw his God; Less credulous, more believing, we Read in the grass—Divinity.

From Horeb's bush the Presence spoke To earlier faiths and simpler folk; But now each bush that sweeps our fence Flames with the Awful Immanence!

To old Zacchaeus in his tree What mattered leaves and botany? His sycamore was but a seat Whence he could watch that hallowed street.

But now to us each elm and pine Is vibrant with the Voice divine, Not only from but in the bough Our larger creed beholds him now.

To the true faith, bark, sap, and stem Are wonderful as Bethlehem; No hill nor brook nor field nor herd But mangers the Incarnate Word!

Far be it from our lips to cast Contempt upon the holy past— Whate'er the Finger writes we scan In manger, prophecy, or man.

Again we touch the healing hem In Nazareth or Jerusalem; We trace again those faultless years; The cross commands our wondering tears.

Yet if to us the Spirit writes On Morning's manuscript and Night's, In gospels of the growing grain, Epistles of the pond and plain,

In stars, in atoms, as they roll, Each tireless round its occult pole, In wing and worm and fin and fleece, In the wise soil's surpassing peace—

Thrice ingrate he whose only look Is backward focussed on the Book, Neglectful what the Presence saith, Though he be near as blood and breath!

The only atheist is one Who hears no Voice in wind or sun, Believer in some primal curse, Deaf in God's loving universe!

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

STILL WITH THEE

Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with thee.

Alone with thee amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born; Alone with thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean The image of the morning-star doth rest, So in this stillness thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast.

Still, still with thee! as to each new born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, So does this blessed consciousness awaking Breathe each day nearness unto thee and heaven.

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eyes look up to thee in prayer; Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading, But sweeter still, to wake and find thee there.

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning, When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee; O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought—I am with thee.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe.

There lives and works a soul in all things, And that soul is God.

—William Cowper.

THE ELIXIR

Teach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do, in anything, To do it as for thee.

A man that looks on glass On it may stay his eye, Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass And then to heaven espy.

All may of thee partake. Nothing can be so mean Which with this tincture (for thy sake) Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine. Who sweeps a room as for thy laws Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for less be told.

—George Herbert.

GOD'S PRESENCE

But God is never so far off As even to be near. He is within; our spirit is The home he holds most dear.

To think of him as by our side Is almost as untrue As to remove his throne beyond Those skies of starry blue.

So all the while I thought myself Homeless, forlorn, and weary, Missing my joy, I walked the earth, Myself God's sanctuary.

I come to thee once more, my God! No longer will I roam; For I have sought the wide world through And never found a home.

Though bright and many are the spots Where I have built a nest— Yet in the brightest still I pined For more abiding rest.

For thou hast made this wondrous soul All for thyself alone; Ah! send thy sweet transforming grace To make it more thine own.

—Frederick William Faber.

GOD IS MINE

If God is mine then present things And things to come are mine; Yea, Christ, his word, and Spirit, too, And glory all divine.

If he is mine then from his love He every trouble sends; All things are working for my good, And bliss his rod attends.

If he is mine I need not fear The rage of earth and hell; He will support my feeble power, Their utmost force repel.

If he is mine let friends forsake, Let wealth and honor flee; Sure he who giveth me himself Is more than these to me.

If he is mine I'll boldly pass Through death's tremendous vale; He is a solid comfort when All other comforts fail.

Oh! tell me, Lord, that thou art mine; What can I wish beside? My soul shall at the fountain live, When all the streams are dried.

A PRESENT SAVIOUR

I have thee every hour, Most gracious Lord, That tender voice of thine Doth peace afford.

I have thee every hour, Thou stay'st near by; Temptations lose their power Since thou art nigh.

I have thee every hour, In joy and pain; With me thou dost abide, And life is gain.

I have thee every hour, Teach me thy will; All thy rich promises Thou dost fulfill.

I have thee every hour, Most Holy One, And I am thine indeed, Thou blessed Son.

—Annie S. Hawks, altered by J. M.

THE THOUGHT OF GOD

The thought of God, the thought of thee, Who liest near my heart, And yet beyond imagined space Outstretched and present art—

The thought of thee, above, below, Around me and within, Is more to me than health and wealth, Or love of kith and kin.

The thought of God is like the tree Beneath whose shade I lie And watch the fleet of snowy clouds Sail o'er the silent sky.

'Tis like that soft invading light Which in all darkness shines, The thread that through life's somber web In golden pattern twines.

It is a thought which ever makes Life's sweetest smiles from tears, It is a daybreak to our hopes, A sunset to our fears.

Within a thought so great, our souls Little and modest grow, And, by its vastness awed, we learn The art of walking slow.

The wild flower on the grassy mound Scarce bends its pliant form When overhead the autumnal wood Is thundering like a storm.

So is it with our humbled souls, Down in the thought of God, Scarce conscious in their sober peace Of the wild storms abroad.

To think of thee is almost prayer, And is outspoken praise; And pain can even passive thoughts To actual worship raise.

All murmurs lie inside thy will Which are to thee addressed; To suffer for thee is our work, To think of thee, our rest.

—Frederick William Faber.

Let thy sweet presence light my way, And hallow every cross I bear; Transmuting duty, conflict, care, Into love's service day by day.

OUR HEAVENLY FATHER

My God, how wonderful thou art, Thy majesty how bright, How beautiful thy mercy seat In depths of burning light!

How dread are thine eternal years, O everlasting Lord, By prostrate spirits, day and night, Incessantly adored.

How beautiful, how beautiful The sight of thee must be, Thine endless wisdom, boundless power, And awful purity!

O how I fear thee, living God! With deepest, tenderest fears, And worship thee with trembling hope And penitential tears.

Yet I may love thee too, O Lord! Almighty as thou art, For thou hast stooped to ask of me The love of this poor heart.

Oh, then, this worse than worthless heart In pity deign to take, And make it love thee for thyself, And for thy glory's sake.

No earthly father loves like thee, No mother half so mild Bears and forbears, as thou hast done With me, thy sinful child.

Only to sit and think of God, O what a joy it is! To think the thought, to breathe the name— Earth has no higher bliss.

Father of Jesus, love's Reward! What rapture will it be, Prostrate before thy throne to lie And gaze, and gaze on thee!

—Frederick William Faber.

RULES FOR DAILY LIFE

Begin the day with God: Kneel down to him in prayer; Lift up thy heart to his abode And seek his love to share.

Open the Book of God, And read a portion there; That it may hallow all thy thoughts And sweeten all thy care.

Go through the day with God, Whate'er thy work may be; Where'er thou art—at home, abroad, He still is near to thee.

Converse in mind with God; Thy spirit heavenward raise; Acknowledge every good bestowed, And offer grateful praise.

Conclude the day with God: Thy sins to him confess; Trust in the Lord's atoning blood, And plead his righteousness.

Lie down at night with God, Who gives his servants sleep; And when thou tread'st the vale of death He will thee guard and keep.

HE FILLS ALL

All are but parts of one stupendous whole; Whose body nature is, and God the soul; That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; Great in the earth as in th' ethereal frame; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees; Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our souls, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns. To him no high, no low, no great, no small, He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

* * * * *

All nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good; And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear—whatever is, is right.

—Alexander Pope.

THE PRESENCE

I sit within my room and joy to find That thou who always lov'st art with me here; That I am never left by thee behind, But by thyself thou keep'st me ever near. The fire burns brighter when with thee I look, And seems a kindlier servant sent to me; With gladder heart I read thy holy book, Because thou art the eyes with which I see; This aged chair, that table, watch, and door Around in ready service ever wait; Nor can I ask of thee a menial more To fill the measure of my large estate; For thou thyself, with all a Father's care, Where'er I turn art ever with me there.

—Jones Very.

BLESSED THOUGHT OF GOD

One thought I have—my ample creed, So deep it is and broad, And equal to my every need— It is the thought of God.

Each morn unfolds some fresh surprise, I feast at life's full board; And rising in my inner skies, Shines forth the thought of God.

At night my gladness is my prayer; I drop my daily load, And every care is pillowed there Upon the thought of God.

I ask not far before to see, But take in trust my road; Life, death, and immortality, Are in my thought of God.

To this their secret strength they owed The martyr's path who trod; The fountains of their patience flowed From out their thought of God.

Be still the light upon my way, My pilgrim staff and rod, My rest by night, my strength by day, O blessed thought of God.

—Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

EVENTIDE

At cool of day with God I walk My garden's grateful shade; I hear his voice among the trees, And I am not afraid.

I see his presence in the night— And though my heart is awed I do not quail before the sight Or nearness of my God.

He speaks to me in every wind, He smiles from every star; He is not deaf to me, nor blind, Nor absent, nor afar.

His hand, that shuts the flowers to sleep, Each in its dewy fold, Is strong my feeble life to keep, And competent to hold.

I cannot walk in darkness long, My light is by my side; I cannot stumble or go wrong While following such a guide.

He is my stay and my defense; How shall I fail or fall? My helper is Omnipotence! My ruler ruleth all!

The powers below and powers above Are subject to his care; I cannot wander from his love Who loves me everywhere.

Thus dowered, and guarded thus, with him I walk this peaceful shade, I hear his voice among the trees, And I am not afraid.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

From cellar unto attic all is clean: Nothing there is that need evade the eye; All the dark places, by the world unseen, Are as well ordered as what open lie.

Ah! souls are houses; and to keep them well, Nor, spring and autumn, mourn their wretched plight, To daily toil must vigilance compel, Right underneath God's scrutinizing light.

SAINTSHIP

To heaven approached a Sufi saint, From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at God's gate.

Said God, "Who seeks to enter here?" "'Tis I, dear Friend," the saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. "If it be thou, without abide."

Sadly to earth the poor saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's.

He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked.

Asked God: "Who now is at the door?" "It is thyself, beloved Lord," Answered the saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward.

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

OPEN THOU OUR EYES

(Luke 24. 15)

And he drew near and talked with them, But they perceived him not, And mourned, unconscious of that light, The gloom, the darkness, and the night That wrapt his burial spot.

Wearied with doubt, perplexed and sad, They knew nor help nor guide; While he who bore the secret key To open every mystery, Unknown was by their side.

Thus often when we feel alone, Nor help nor comfort near, 'Tis only that our eyes are dim, Doubting and sad we see not him Who waiteth still to hear.

"The darkness gathers overhead, The morn will never come." Did we but raise our downcast eyes, In the white-flushing eastern skies Appears the glowing sun.

In all our daily joys and griefs In daily work and rest, To those who seek him Christ is near, Our bliss to calm, to soothe our care, In leaning on his breast.

Open our eyes, O Lord, we pray, To see our way, our Guide; That by the path that here we tread, We, following on, may still be led In thy light to abide.

MAN

My God, I heard this day That none doth build a stately habitation But he that means to dwell therein. What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is man? to whose creation All things are in decay.

More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of: in every path He treads down that which doth befriend him, When sickness makes him pale and wan. O mighty love! man is one world, and hath Another to attend him.

For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow; Nothing we see but means our good, As our delight or as our treasure; The whole is either cupboard of our food, Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed; Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws; Music and light attend our head; All things unto our flesh are kind In their descent and being; to our mind, In their ascent and cause.

Since then, my God, thou hast So brave a palace built, O dwell in it That it may dwell with thee at last. Till then, afford us so much wit That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, And both thy servants be.

—George Herbert.

EVER WITH THEE

I am with thee, my God— Where I desire to be: By day, by night, at home, abroad, I always am with thee.

With thee when dawn comes on And calls me back to care, Each day returning to begin With thee, my God, in prayer.

With thee amid the crowd That throngs the busy mart; I hear thy voice, when time's is loud, Speak softly to my heart.

With thee when day is done And evening calms the mind; The setting as the rising sun With thee my heart shall find.

With thee when darkness brings The signal of repose; Calm in the shadow of thy wings Mine eyelids gently close.

With thee, in thee, by faith Abiding I shall be; By day, by night, in life, in death, I always am with thee.

—James D. Burns, altered by J. M.

SELF-EXAMINATION

By all means use sometime to be alone. Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear. Dare to look in thy chest; for 'tis thine own; And tumble up and down what thou findst there. Who cannot rest till he good fellows find, He breaks up homes, turns out of doors his mind.

Sum up by night what thou hast done by day; And in the morning, what thou hast to do. Dress and undress thy soul; mark the decay And growth of it; if, with thy watch, that too Be down, then wind up both; since we shall be Most surely judged, make thy accounts agree.

—George Herbert.

"SHOW ME THY FACE"

Show me thy face— One transient gleam Of loveliness divine And I shall never think or dream Of other love save thine. All lesser light will darken quite, All lower glories wane; The beautiful of earth will scarce Seem beautiful again!

Show me thy face— My faith and love Shall henceforth fixed be, And nothing here have power to move My soul's serenity. My life shall seem a trance, a dream, And all I feel and see Illusive, visionary—thou The one reality.

Show me thy face— I shall forget The weary days of yore; The fretting ghosts of vain regret Shall haunt my soul no more; All doubts and fears for future years In quiet rest subside, And naught but blest content and calm Within my breast reside.

Show me thy face— The heaviest cross Will then seem light to bear; There will be gain in every loss, And peace with every care. With such light feet The years will fleet, Life seem as brief as blest, Till I have laid my burden down And entered into rest.

Show me thy face— And I shall be In heart and mind renewed; With wisdom, grace, and energy To work thy work endued. Shine clear, though pale, Behind the veil Until, the veil removed, In perfect glory I behold The Face that I have loved!

I stand in the great Forever, All things to me are divine; I eat of the heavenly manna, I drink of the heavenly wine.

LISTENING FOR GOD

I hear it often in the dark, I hear it in the light: Where is the voice that calls to me With such a quiet might? It seems but echo to my thought, And yet beyond the stars; It seems a heart-beat in a hush, And yet the planet jars.

O may it be that, far within My inmost soul, there lies A spirit-sky that opens with Those voices of surprise? And can it be, by night and day, That firmament serene Is just the heaven where God himself, The Father, dwells unseen?

O God within, so close to me That every thought is plain, Be judge, be friend, be Father still, And in thy heaven reign! Thy heaven is mine, my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences With music and with song.

They send me challenges to right, And loud rebuke my ill; They ring my bells of victory, They breathe my "Peace, be still!" They even seem to say: "My child, Why seek me so all day? Now journey inward to thyself, And listen by the way."

—William C. Gannett.

ALLAH'S HOUSE

Nanac the faithful, pausing once to pray, From holy Mecca turned his face away; A Moslem priest who chanced to see him there, Forgetful of the attitude in prayer, Cried "Infidel, how durst thou turn thy feet Toward Allah's house—the sacred temple seat?" To whom the pious Nanac thus replied: "Knowest thou God's house is, as the world is, wide? Then, turn thee, if thou canst, toward any spot Where mighty Allah's awful house is not."

—Frank Dempster Sherman.

IF THE LORD SHOULD COME

If the Lord should come in the morning, As I went about my work— The little things and the quiet things That a servant cannot shirk, Though nobody ever sees them, And only the dear Lord cares That they always are done in the light of the sun— Would he take me unawares?

If my Lord should come at noonday— The time of the dust and heat, When the glare is white and the air is still And the hoof-beats sound in the street; If my dear Lord came at noonday, And smiled in my tired eyes, Would it not be sweet his look to meet? Would he take me by surprise?

If my Lord came hither at evening, In the fragrant dew and dusk, When the world drops off its mantle Of daylight, like a husk, And flowers, in wonderful beauty, And we fold our hands in rest, Would his touch of my hand, his low command, Bring me unhoped-for zest?

Why do I ask and question? He is ever coming to me, Morning and noon and evening, If I have but eyes to see. And the daily load grows lighter, The daily cares grow sweet, For the Master is near, the Master is here, I have only to sit at his feet.

—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

The day is long and the day is hard; We are tired of the march and of keeping guard; Tired of the sense of a fight to be won, Of days to live through, and of work to be done; Tired of ourselves and of being alone.

And all the while, did we only see, We walk in the Lord's own company; We fight, but 'tis he who nerves our arm; He turns the arrows which else might harm, And out of the storm he brings a calm.

—Susan Coolidge.

COME TO ME

Come to me, come to me, O my God; Come to me everywhere. Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod, And the water and the air.

For thou art so far that I often doubt, As on every side I stare, Searching within and looking without, If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old? How did they grow so sure? They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold, They suffered and kept themselves pure.

But now they say—neither above the sphere Nor down in the heart of man, But only in fancy, ambition, and fear, The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true Which ages have not made old, Of the endless many makes one anew, And simplicity manifold!

But he taught that they who did his word, The truth of it sure would know; I will try to do it—if he be Lord Again the old faith will glow.

Again the old spirit-wind will blow That he promised to their prayer; And obeying the Son, I too shall know His Father everywhere.

—George Macdonald.

Out of the hardness of heart and of will Out of the longings which nothing could fill; Out of the bitterness, madness, and strife, Out of myself and all I called life, Into the having of all things with Him! Into an ecstacy full to the brim! Wonderful loveliness, draining my cup! Wonderful purpose that ne'er gave me up! Wonderful patience, enduring and strong! Wonderful glory to which I belong!

IF I HIM BUT HAVE

If I Him but have, If he be but mine— If my heart, hence to the grave, Ne'er forgets his love divine— Know I naught of sadness, Feel I naught but worship, love, and gladness.

If I Him but have, Glad with all I part; Follow on my pilgrim staff, My Lord, only, with true heart; Leave them, nothing saying, On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying.

If I Him but have, Glad I fall asleep; Aye the flood that his heart gave Strength within my heart shall keep; And with soft compelling Make it tender, through and through it swelling.

If I Him but have, Mine the world I hail! Glad as cherub smiling, grave, Holding back the Virgin's veil. Sunk and lost in seeing, Earthly cares have died from all my being.

Where I have but Him Is my Fatherland, And all gifts and graces come Heritage into my hand; Brothers long deplored I in his disciples find restored.

—George Macdonald.

Quiet from God! How beautiful to keep This treasure the All-merciful hath given; To feel, when we awake or when we sleep, Its incense round us like a breath from heaven.

To sojourn in the world, and yet apart; To dwell with God, and still with man to feel; To bear about forever in the heart The gladness which his spirit doth reveal.

—Sarah J. Williams.

HIS CHOSEN ONES

Some souls there are, beloved of God, Who, following where the saints have trod, Learn such surrender of the will They seem insensible of ill.

Yet, finely strung and sensitive, They live far more than others live, And grief's and pain's experience Must be to them far more intense.

O mystery—that such can know A life impregnable to woe! O paradox that God alone In secret proveth to his own!

It must be that supremest grace So nerves them for the heavenly race Their litanies are turned to psalms, Their crosses, even here, to palms.

—Harriet McEwen Kimball.

When, courting slumber, The hours I number, And sad cares cumber My weary mind, This thought shall cheer me: That thou art near me, Whose ear to hear me Is still inclined.

My soul thou keepest, Who never sleepest; 'Mid gloom the deepest There's light above; Thine eyes behold me, Thine arms enfold me; Thy word has told me That God is love.

We are not angels, but we may Down in earth's corners kneel, And multiply sweet acts of love, And murmur what we feel.

—Frederick William Faber.

Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red, From thee the violet steals its breath in May, From thee draw life all things that grow not gray, And by thy force the happy stars are sped.

—James Russell Lowell.

COME TO US, LORD

Come to us, Lord, as the daylight comes When the darkling night has gone, And the quickened East is tremulous With the thrill of the wakened dawn.

Come to us, Lord, as the tide comes on With the waves from the distant sea; Come, till our desert places smile, And our souls are filled with thee.

There are in this loud, stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of th' everlasting chime! Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

—John Keble.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes. The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries, And daub their natural faces unaware More and more from the first similitude.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

O Name all other names above, What art thou not to me, Now I have learned to trust thy love And cast my care on thee! The thought of thee all sorrow calms; Our anxious burdens fall; His crosses turn to triumph palms Who finds in God his all.

—Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh, I have thee still, and I rejoice, I prosper circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee though I die.

—Alfred Tennyson.

Let the Loved One but smile on this poor heart of mine, I will sell the two worlds for one drop of his wine.

—From the Persian.

CONFIDENCE

Thy presence, Lord, the place doth fill, My heart is now thy throne, Thy holy, just and perfect will Now in my flesh is done.

My steadfast soul, from falling free, Doth now no longer rove, For Christ is all the world to me And all my heart is love.

—Charles Wesley, altered by J. M.

Two worlds are ours; 'tis only sin Forbids us to descry The mystic heaven and earth within Plain as the sea and sky.

Thou who hast given me eyes to see And love this sight so fair, Give me a heart to find out thee, And read thee everywhere.

—John Keble.

Speak to him, thou, for he hears, And spirit with spirit can meet; Closer is he than breathing, And nearer than hands and feet.

—Alfred Tennyson.

Heaven above is softer blue, Earth around is sweeter green, Something lives in every hue Christless eyes have never seen.

Birds with gladder songs o'erflow, Flowers with deeper beauties shine; Since I knew, as now I know, I am his and he is mine.

Unheard, because our ears are dull, Unseen, because our eyes are dim, He walks the earth, the Wonderful, And all good deeds are done to him.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

Where'er I look one Face alone I see, With every attribute of beauty in it blent; Still, still the Godhead's face entrances me, Yielding transcendency of all that can be spent.

—From the Persian.

IMMANENCE

Not only in the cataract and the thunder Or in the deeps of man's uncharted soul, But in the dew-star dwells alike the wonder And in the whirling dust-mite the control.

—Charles G. D. Roberts.

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

—Edward Young.

A governed heart, thinking no thought but good, Makes crowded houses holy solitude.

—Edwin Arnold.

But where will God be absent; in his face Is light, and in his shadow healing, too.

—Robert Browning.

And good may ever conquer ill, Health walk where pain has trod; "As a man thinketh, so is he"; Rise, then, and think with God.

God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice, For, if He thunder by law, the thunder is yet his voice.

—Alfred Tennyson.

Whatever road I take, it joins the street Which leadeth all who walk it thee to meet.

O work thy works in God. He can rejoice in naught Save only in himself And what himself hath wrought.

To live, to live, is life's great joy; to feel The living God within—to look abroad, And, in the beauty that all things reveal, Still meet the living God.

—Robert Leighton.



JESUS

HIS PRECIOUSNESS, AND BEAUTY, AND LOVE

OUR MASTER

Immortal Love, forever full, Forever flowing free, Forever shared, forever whole, A never-ebbing sea!

No fable old, nor mythic lore, Nor dream of bards and seers, No dead fact stranded on the shore Of the oblivious years;—

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet A present help is he; And faith has still its Olivet, And love its Galilee.

The healing of his seamless dress Is by our beds of pain; We touch him in life's throng and press, And we are whole again.

Through him the first fond prayers are said Our lips of childhood frame, The last low whispers of our dead Are burdened with his name.

O Lord and Master of us all! Whate'er our name or sign, We own thy sway, we hear thy call, We test our lives by thine.

We faintly hear, we dimly see, In differing phrase we pray; But, dim or clear, we own in thee The Light, the Truth, the Way!

To do thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds, And simple trust can find thy ways We miss with chart of creeds.

No pride of self thy service hath, No place for me and mine; Our human strength is weakness, death, Our life, apart from thine.

Apart from thee all gain is loss, All labor vainly done; The solemn shadow of thy cross Is better than the sun.

Alone, O Love, ineffable! Thy saving name is given: To turn aside from thee is hell, To walk with thee is heaven.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

MY HEART IS FIXED

I'll not leave Jesus,—never, never! Ah, what can more precious be? Rest and joy and light are ever In his hand to give to me. All things that can satisfy, Having Jesus, those have I.

Love has bound me fast unto him, I am his and he is mine; Daily I for pardon sue him, Answers he with peace divine. On that Rock my trust is laid, And I rest beneath its shade.

Without Jesus earth would weary, Seem almost like hell to be; But if Jesus I see near me Earth is almost heaven to me. Am I hungry, he doth give Bread on which my soul can live.

Spent with him, one little hour Giveth a year's worth of gain; Grace and peace put forth their power Joy doth wholly banish pain; One faith-glance that findeth him Maketh earthly crowns look dim.

O how light upon my shoulder Lies my cross, now grown so small! For the Lord is my upholder, Fits it to me, softens all; Neither shall it always stay, Patience, it will pass away.

Those who faithfully go forward In his changeless care shall go, Nothing's doubtful or untoward, To the flock who Jesus know. Jesus always is the same; True and faithful is his name.

CHRIST'S SYMPATHY

If Jesus came to earth again, And walked and talked in field and street, Who would not lay his human pain Low at those heavenly feet?

And leave the loom, and leave the lute, And leave the volume on the shelf, To follow him, unquestioning, mute, If 'twere the Lord himself?

How many a brow with care o'erworn, How many a heart with grief o'er-laden, How many a man with woe forlorn, How many a mourning maiden,

Would leave the baffling earthly prize, Which fails the earthly weak endeavor, To gaze into those holy eyes And drink content forever!

His sheep along the cool, the shade, By the still watercourse he leads; His lambs upon his breast are laid; His hungry ones he feeds.

And I where'er he went would go, Nor question where the paths might lead; Enough to know that here below I walked with God indeed!

If it be thus, O Lord of mine, In absence is thy love forgot? And must I, when I walk, repine Because I see thee not?

If this be thus, if this be thus, Since our poor prayers yet reach thee, Lord, Since we are weak, once more to us Reveal the living Word!

O nearer to me, in the dark, Of life's low house, one moment stand; And give me keener eyes to mark The moving of thy hand.

—Edward Bulwer Lytton.

There's not a craving in the mind Thou dost not meet and still; There's not a wish the heart can have Which thou dost not fulfill.

—Frederick William Faber.

FINDING ALL IN JESUS

O Love that wilt not let me go, I rest my weary soul on thee; I give thee back the life I owe, That in thine ocean depth its flow May richer, fuller be.

O Light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to thee; My heart restores its borrowed ray, That in thy sunshine's blaze its day May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, And feel the promise is not vain, That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from thee; I lay in dust life's glory dead, And from the ground there blossoms red Life that shall endless be.

—George Matheson.

EAST LONDON

'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said: "Ill and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?" "Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread."

O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light Above the howling senses' ebb and flow To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam— Not with lost toil thou laborest thro' the night! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.

—Matthew Arnold.

PRECIOUSNESS OF CHRIST

Jesus, the very thought of thee With sweetness fills the breast; But sweeter far thy face to see, And in thy presence rest.

No voice can sing, no heart can frame, Nor can the memory find, A sweeter sound than thy blest name, O Saviour of mankind!

O hope of every contrite heart! O joy of all the meek! To those who ask how kind thou art, How good to those who seek!

But what to those who find? Ah, this Nor tongue nor pen can show; The love of Jesus, what it is, None but his loved ones know.

Jesus, our only joy be thou, As thou our prize wilt be; In thee be all our glory now, And through eternity.

—Bernard of Clairvaux, tr. by Edward Caswall.

A LITTLE TALK WITH JESUS

A little talk with Jesus, How it smooths the rugged road! How it seems to help me onward, When I faint beneath my load; When my heart is crushed with sorrow, And my eyes with tears are dim, There is naught can yield me comfort Like a little talk with him.

Ah, this is what I'm wanting— His lovely face to see; And, I'm not afraid to say it, I know he's wanting me. He gave his life my ransom, To make me all his own, And he'll ne'er forget his promise To me his purchased one.

I cannot live without him, Nor would I if I could; He is my daily portion, My medicine and food. He's altogether lovely, None can with him compare; Chiefest among ten thousand, And fairest of the fair.

So I'll wait a little longer, Till his appointed time, And along the upward pathway My pilgrim feet shall climb. There in my Father's dwelling, Where many mansions be, I shall sweetly talk with Jesus, And he will talk with me.

NOTHING TO WISH OR TO FEAR

His name yields the richest perfume, And sweeter than music his voice; His presence disperses my gloom, And makes all within me rejoice; I should, were he always thus nigh, Have nothing to wish or to fear; No mortal so happy as I, My summer would last all the year.

Content with beholding his face, My all to his pleasure resigned, No changes of season or place Would make any change in my mind; While blest with a sense of his love A palace a toy would appear; And prisons would palaces prove If Jesus would dwell with me there.

—John Newton.

THE HEART OF GOD

There is no love like the love of Jesus, Never to fade or fall Till into the fold of the peace of God He has gathered us all.

There is no heart like the heart of Jesus, Filled with a tender lore; Not a throb or throe our hearts can know But he suffered before.

There is no voice like the voice of Jesus; Ah! how sweet its chime, Like the musical ring of some rushing spring In the summer-time!

O might we listen that voice of Jesus! O might we never roam Till our souls should rest, in peace, on his breast, In the heavenly home!

—W. E. Littlewood.

THE TOUCH

"He touched her hand, and the fever left her." He touched her hand as he only can, With the wondrous skill of the Great Physician, With the tender touch of the Son of man, And the fever-pain in the throbbing temples Died out with the flush on brow and cheek, And the lips that had been so parched and burning Trembled with thanks that she could not speak, And the eyes where the fever light had faded Looked up, by her grateful tears made dim, And she rose and ministered in her household; She rose and ministered unto him.

"He touched her hand, and the fever left her." O blessed touch of the Man divine! So beautiful to arise and serve him When the fever is gone from your life and mine. It may be the fever of restless serving With heart all thirsty for love and praise, And eyes all aching and strained with yearning Toward self-set goals in the future days. Or it may be fever of spirit anguish, Some tempest of sorrow that does not down, Till the cross at last is in meekness lifted And the head stoops low for the thorny crown. Or it may be a fever of pain and anger, When the wounded spirit is hard to bear, And only the Lord can draw forth the arrows Left carelessly, cruelly rankling there.

Whatever the fever, his touch can heal it; Whatever the tempest, his voice can still. There is only a rest as we seek his pleasure, There is only a rest as we choose his will. And some day, after life's fitful fever, I think we shall say, in the home on high, "If the hands that he touched but did his bidding, How little it matters what else went by!" Ah, Lord, Thou knowest us altogether, Each heart's sore sickness, whatever it be; Touch thou our hands! Let the fever leave us, And so shall we minister unto thee!

JESUS OUR JOY

Jesus, thou Joy of loving hearts! Thou Fount of life! thou Light of men! From the best bliss that earth imparts We turn, unfilled, to thee again.

Thy truth unchanged hath ever stood; Thou savest those that on thee call; To them that seek thee thou art good, To them that find thee, all in all.

We taste thee, O thou Living Bread, And long to feast upon thee still; We drink of thee, the Fountain Head, And thirst our souls from thee to fill!

Our restless spirits yearn for thee Where'er our changeful lot is cast; Glad, when thy gracious smile we see, Blest, when our faith can hold thee fast.

O Jesus, ever with us stay; Make all our moments calm and bright; Chase the dark night of sin away; Shed o'er the world thy holy light.

—Bernard of Clairvaux, tr. by Ray Palmer.

FRIEND OF SOULS

O Friend of souls! how blest the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb E'en to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there, Thy rays outshine the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heavens is won.

The world may call itself my foe, Or flatter and allure, I care not for the world—I go To this tried friend and sure. And when life's fiercest storms are sent Upon life's wildest sea, My little bark is confident Because it holdeth thee.

When the law threatens endless death Upon the awful hill, Straightway from her consuming breath My soul goes higher still— Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, And maketh him her home, Whence she will not go out again, And where death cannnot come.

I do not fear the wilderness— Where thou hast been before; Nay, rather will I daily press After thee, near thee, more. Thou art my food, on thee I lean; Thou makest my heart sing; And to thy heavenly pastures green All thy dear flock dost bring.

And if the gate that opens there Be dark to other men, It is not dark to those who share The heart of Jesus then. That is not losing much of life Which is not losing thee, Who art as present in the strife As in the victory.