ASPIRATION

I know not, and I would not know,Content, I leave it all with Thee;'Tis ever best it should be so;As thou wilt have it let it be.But this I know: that every dayAnd every step for me is planned;I surely cannot lose the WayWhile He is holding fast my hand.And surely, whatsoe'er betide,I never shall be left alone:Thou standest ever by my side;To thee my future all is known.And wheresoe'er my lot may fallThe way before is marked by Thee;The windings of my life are allUnfoldings of thy Love to me.

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

I know not, and I would not know,

Content, I leave it all with Thee;

'Tis ever best it should be so;

As thou wilt have it let it be.

But this I know: that every dayAnd every step for me is planned;I surely cannot lose the WayWhile He is holding fast my hand.

But this I know: that every day

And every step for me is planned;

I surely cannot lose the Way

While He is holding fast my hand.

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

And surely, whatsoe'er betide,

I never shall be left alone:

Thou standest ever by my side;

To thee my future all is known.

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

And wheresoe'er my lot may fall

The way before is marked by Thee;

The windings of my life are all

Unfoldings of thy Love to me.

———

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

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

What matter will it be, O mortal man, when thou art dying,

Whether upon a throne or on the bare earth thou art lying?

—From the Persian.

———

Content that God's decreeShould order all for thee.Content with sickness or with health—Content with poverty or wealth—Content to walk in humble guise,And as He wills it sink or rise.Content to live aloneAnd call no place thine own.No sweet reunions day by day.Thy kindred spirits far away.And, since God wills to have it so,Thou wouldst not change for weal or woe.Content that others riseBefore thy very eyes.How bright their lot and portion here!Wealth fills their coffers—friends are near.Behold their mansions tall and fair!The timbrel and the dance are there.Content to toil or rest—God's peace within thy breast—To feel thy times are in His handWho holds all worlds in his command—Thy time to laugh—thy time to sigh—Thy time to live—thy time to die.And is it so indeedThou art with God agreed?Content 'mid all the ills of life?Farewell, then, sorrow, pain and strife!Such high content is heaven begun.The battle's fought, the victory won!—Mary Ann W. Cook.

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

Content that God's decree

Should order all for thee.

Content with sickness or with health—

Content with poverty or wealth—

Content to walk in humble guise,

And as He wills it sink or rise.

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

Content to live alone

And call no place thine own.

No sweet reunions day by day.

Thy kindred spirits far away.

And, since God wills to have it so,

Thou wouldst not change for weal or woe.

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

Content that others rise

Before thy very eyes.

How bright their lot and portion here!

Wealth fills their coffers—friends are near.

Behold their mansions tall and fair!

The timbrel and the dance are there.

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

Content to toil or rest—

God's peace within thy breast—

To feel thy times are in His hand

Who holds all worlds in his command—

Thy time to laugh—thy time to sigh—

Thy time to live—thy time to die.

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

And is it so indeed

Thou art with God agreed?

Content 'mid all the ills of life?

Farewell, then, sorrow, pain and strife!

Such high content is heaven begun.

The battle's fought, the victory won!

—Mary Ann W. Cook.

———

Have I learned, in whatsoeverState to be content?Have I learned this blessed lessonBy my Master sent—And with joyous acquiescenceDo I greet His willEven when my own is thwartedAnd my hands lie still?Surely it is best and sweetestThus to have Him choose,Even though some work I've takenBy this choice I lose.Folded hands need not be idle—Fold them but in prayer;Other souls may toil far betterFor God's answer there.They that "reap" receive their "wages,"Those who "work" their "crown,"Those who pray throughout the agesBring blest answers down;In "whatever state" abidingTill the Master call,They at eventide will find HimGlorified in all.What though I can do so littleFor my Lord and King,At His feet I sit and listen,At His feet I sing.And, whatever my condition,All in love is meant;Sing, my soul, thy recognition,Sing, and be content!

Have I learned, in whatsoever

State to be content?

Have I learned this blessed lesson

By my Master sent—

And with joyous acquiescence

Do I greet His will

Even when my own is thwarted

And my hands lie still?

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

Surely it is best and sweetest

Thus to have Him choose,

Even though some work I've taken

By this choice I lose.

Folded hands need not be idle—

Fold them but in prayer;

Other souls may toil far better

For God's answer there.

They that "reap" receive their "wages,"Those who "work" their "crown,"Those who pray throughout the agesBring blest answers down;In "whatever state" abidingTill the Master call,They at eventide will find HimGlorified in all.

They that "reap" receive their "wages,"

Those who "work" their "crown,"

Those who pray throughout the ages

Bring blest answers down;

In "whatever state" abiding

Till the Master call,

They at eventide will find Him

Glorified in all.

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

What though I can do so little

For my Lord and King,

At His feet I sit and listen,

At His feet I sing.

And, whatever my condition,

All in love is meant;

Sing, my soul, thy recognition,

Sing, and be content!

———

Led by kindlier hand than ours,We journey through this earthly scene,And should not, in our weary hours,Turn to regret what might have been.And yet these hearts, when torn by pain,Or wrung by disappointment keen,Will seek relief from present caresIn thoughts of joys that might have been.But let us still these wishes vain;We know not that of which we dream.Our lives might have been sadder yetGod only knows what might have been.Forgive us, Lord, our little faith;And help us all, from morn to e'en,Still to believe that lot were bestWhich is—not that which might have been.And grant we may so pass the daysThe cradle and the grave between,That death's dark hour not darker beFor thoughts of what life might have been.—George Z. Gray.

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

Led by kindlier hand than ours,

We journey through this earthly scene,

And should not, in our weary hours,

Turn to regret what might have been.

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

And yet these hearts, when torn by pain,

Or wrung by disappointment keen,

Will seek relief from present cares

In thoughts of joys that might have been.

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

But let us still these wishes vain;

We know not that of which we dream.

Our lives might have been sadder yet

God only knows what might have been.

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

Forgive us, Lord, our little faith;

And help us all, from morn to e'en,

Still to believe that lot were best

Which is—not that which might have been.

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

And grant we may so pass the days

The cradle and the grave between,

That death's dark hour not darker be

For thoughts of what life might have been.

—George Z. Gray.

———

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

Hushing every muttered murmur,

Let your fortitude the firmer

Gird your soul with strength.

While, no treason near her lurking,

Patience in her perfect working,

Shall be Queen at length.

———

Be thou content; be still beforeHis face at whose right hand doth reignFullness of joy for evermore,Without whom all thy toil is vain;He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose raysMake glad with life and light thy dreary days.Be thou content.In him is comfort, light, and grace,And changeless love beyond our thought;The sorest pang, the worst disgrace,If he is there, shall harm thee not.He can lift off thy cross and loose thy bands,And calm thy fears; nay, death is in His hands.Be thou content.Or art thou friendless and alone—Hast none in whom thou canst confide?God careth for thee, lonely one—Comfort and help he will provide.He sees thy sorrows, and thy hidden grief,He knoweth when to send thee quick relief;Be thou content.Thy heart's unspoken pain he knows,Thy secret sighs he hears full well;What to none else thou darest discloseTo him thou mayest with boldness tell.He is not far away, but ever nigh,And answereth willingly the poor man's cry:Be thou content.

Be thou content; be still before

His face at whose right hand doth reign

Fullness of joy for evermore,

Without whom all thy toil is vain;

He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays

Make glad with life and light thy dreary days.

Be thou content.

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

In him is comfort, light, and grace,

And changeless love beyond our thought;

The sorest pang, the worst disgrace,

If he is there, shall harm thee not.

He can lift off thy cross and loose thy bands,

And calm thy fears; nay, death is in His hands.

Be thou content.

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

Or art thou friendless and alone—

Hast none in whom thou canst confide?

God careth for thee, lonely one—

Comfort and help he will provide.

He sees thy sorrows, and thy hidden grief,

He knoweth when to send thee quick relief;

Be thou content.

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

Thy heart's unspoken pain he knows,

Thy secret sighs he hears full well;

What to none else thou darest disclose

To him thou mayest with boldness tell.

He is not far away, but ever nigh,

And answereth willingly the poor man's cry:

Be thou content.

———

'Twas in the night the manna fellThat fed the hosts of Israel.Enough for each day's fullest storeAnd largest need; enough, no more.For willful waste, for prideful show,God sent not angels' food below.Still in our nights of deep distressThe manna falls our heart to bless.And, famished, as we cry for bread,With heavenly food our lives are fed,And each day's need finds each day's storeEnough. Dear Lord, what want we more!—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

'Twas in the night the manna fellThat fed the hosts of Israel.

'Twas in the night the manna fell

That fed the hosts of Israel.

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

Enough for each day's fullest store

And largest need; enough, no more.

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

For willful waste, for prideful show,

God sent not angels' food below.

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

Still in our nights of deep distress

The manna falls our heart to bless.

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

And, famished, as we cry for bread,

With heavenly food our lives are fed,

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

And each day's need finds each day's store

Enough. Dear Lord, what want we more!

—Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

———

We look too far for blessings;We seek too far for joys;We ought to be like childrenWho find their chiefest toysOfttimes in nearest attic,Or in some dingy lane—Their aprons full of weeds or flowersGathered in sun or rain.Within the plainest cottageUnselfish love may grow;The sweetest, the divinest gift,Which mortals ever know.We ought to count our joys, not woes;Meet care with winsome grace;For discontent plows furrowsUpon the loveliest face.Hope, freedom, sunlight, knowledge,Come not to wealth alone;He who looks far for blessingsWill overlook his own.—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

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

We look too far for blessings;

We seek too far for joys;

We ought to be like children

Who find their chiefest toys

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

Ofttimes in nearest attic,

Or in some dingy lane—

Their aprons full of weeds or flowers

Gathered in sun or rain.

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

Within the plainest cottage

Unselfish love may grow;

The sweetest, the divinest gift,

Which mortals ever know.

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

We ought to count our joys, not woes;

Meet care with winsome grace;

For discontent plows furrows

Upon the loveliest face.

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

Hope, freedom, sunlight, knowledge,

Come not to wealth alone;

He who looks far for blessings

Will overlook his own.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

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

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

A sprig of mint by the wayward brook,

A nibble of birch in the wood,

A summer day, and love, and a book,

And I wouldn't be a king if I could.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

The way to make thy son rich is to fillHis mind with rest before his trunk with riches:For wealth without contentment climbs a hillTo feel those tempests which fly over ditches.—George Herbert.

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

The way to make thy son rich is to fill

His mind with rest before his trunk with riches:

For wealth without contentment climbs a hill

To feel those tempests which fly over ditches.

—George Herbert.

———

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

There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,

No chemic art can counterfeit;

It makes men rich in greatest poverty,

Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,

The homely whistle to sweet music's strain;

Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,

That much in little, all in naught—Content.

———

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

I could not find the little maid Content,

So out I rushed, and sought her far and wide;

But not where Pleasure each new fancy tried,

Heading the maze of rioting merriment,

Nor where, with restless eyes and bow half bent,

Love in the brake of sweetbriar smiled and sighed,

Nor yet where Fame towered, crowned and glorified,

Found I her face, nor wheresoe'er I went.

So homeward back I crawled, like wounded bird,

When lo! Content sate spinning at my door;

And when I asked her where she was before—

"Here all the time," she said; "I never stirred;

Too eager in thy search, you passed me o'er,

And, though I called you, neither saw nor heard."

—Alfred Austin.

———

Day by day the manna fell;O to learn this lesson well;Still by constant mercy fed,Give me, Lord, my daily bread."Day by day," the promise reads;Daily strength for daily needs;Cast foreboding fears away;Take the manna of to-day.Lord, my times are in thy hand.All my sanguine hopes have plannedTo thy wisdom I resign,And would make thy purpose thine.Thou my daily task shalt give;Day by day to Thee I live;So shall added years fulfillNot my own—my Father's will.Fond ambition, whisper not;Happy is my humble lot;Anxious, busy cares away;I'm provided for to-day.O to live exempt from careBy the energy of prayer;Strong in faith, with mind subdued,Yet elate with gratitude.—Josiah Conder.

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

Day by day the manna fell;

O to learn this lesson well;

Still by constant mercy fed,

Give me, Lord, my daily bread.

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

"Day by day," the promise reads;

Daily strength for daily needs;

Cast foreboding fears away;

Take the manna of to-day.

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

Lord, my times are in thy hand.

All my sanguine hopes have planned

To thy wisdom I resign,

And would make thy purpose thine.

Thou my daily task shalt give;Day by day to Thee I live;So shall added years fulfillNot my own—my Father's will.

Thou my daily task shalt give;

Day by day to Thee I live;

So shall added years fulfill

Not my own—my Father's will.

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

Fond ambition, whisper not;

Happy is my humble lot;

Anxious, busy cares away;

I'm provided for to-day.

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

O to live exempt from care

By the energy of prayer;

Strong in faith, with mind subdued,

Yet elate with gratitude.

—Josiah Conder.

———

God is enough! thou, who in hope and fearToilest through desert sands of life, sore tried,Climb, trustful, over death's black ridge, for nearThe bright wells shine; thou wilt be satisfied.God doth suffice! O thou, the patient one,Who puttest faith in him, and none beside,Bear yet thy load; under the setting sunThe glad tents gleam; thou wilt be satisfiedBy God's gold Afternoon! peace ye shall have;Man is in loss except he live aright,And help his fellow to be firm and brave,Faithful and patient; then the restful night.—Edwin Arnold, from the Arabian.

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

God is enough! thou, who in hope and fear

Toilest through desert sands of life, sore tried,

Climb, trustful, over death's black ridge, for near

The bright wells shine; thou wilt be satisfied.

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

God doth suffice! O thou, the patient one,

Who puttest faith in him, and none beside,

Bear yet thy load; under the setting sun

The glad tents gleam; thou wilt be satisfied

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

By God's gold Afternoon! peace ye shall have;

Man is in loss except he live aright,

And help his fellow to be firm and brave,

Faithful and patient; then the restful night.

—Edwin Arnold, from the Arabian.

———

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

They're richer who diminish their desires,

Though their possessions be not amplified,

Than monarchs, who in owning large empires,

Have minds that never will be satisfied.

For he is poor who wants what he would have,

And rich who, having naught, doth nothing crave.

—T. Urchard.

———

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

Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident,

It is the very place God meant for thee;

And shouldst thou there small scope for action see

Do not for this give room to discontent,

Nor let the time thou owest God be spent

In idle dreaming how thou mightest be,

In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free

From outward hindrance or impediment.

For presently this hindrance thou shalt find

That without which all goodness were a task

So slight that virtue never could grow strong;

And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind—

The Imposer's—over-burdened thou shalt ask,

And own thy need of, grace to help ere long.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

———

Who drives the horses of the sunShall lord it but a day;Better the lowly deed were done,And kept the humble way.The rust will find the sword of fame,The dust will hide the crown;Aye, none shall nail so high his nameTime will not tear it down.The happiest heart that ever beatWas in some quiet breastThat found the common daylight sweet,And left to Heaven the rest.—John Vance Cheney.

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

Who drives the horses of the sun

Shall lord it but a day;

Better the lowly deed were done,

And kept the humble way.

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

The rust will find the sword of fame,

The dust will hide the crown;

Aye, none shall nail so high his name

Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beatWas in some quiet breastThat found the common daylight sweet,And left to Heaven the rest.

The happiest heart that ever beat

Was in some quiet breast

That found the common daylight sweet,

And left to Heaven the rest.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

Welcome the shadows; where they blackest areBurns through the bright supernal hour;From blindness of wide dark looks out the star,From all death's night the April flower.For beauty and for gladness of the daysBring but the meed of trust;The April grass looks up from barren ways,The daisy from the dust.When of this flurry thou shalt have thy fill,The thing thou seekest, it will seek thee then:The heavens repeat themselves in waters stillAnd in the faces of contented men.—John Vance Cheney.

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

Welcome the shadows; where they blackest are

Burns through the bright supernal hour;

From blindness of wide dark looks out the star,

From all death's night the April flower.

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

For beauty and for gladness of the days

Bring but the meed of trust;

The April grass looks up from barren ways,

The daisy from the dust.

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

When of this flurry thou shalt have thy fill,

The thing thou seekest, it will seek thee then:

The heavens repeat themselves in waters still

And in the faces of contented men.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

New every morning is the loveOur wakening and uprising prove;Through sleep and darkness safely brought,Restored to life, and power, and thought.New mercies each returning dayHover around us while we pray;New perils past, new sins forgiven,New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.If on our daily course our mindBe set to hallow all we find,New treasures still, of countless price,God will provide for sacrifice.Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier beAs more of heaven in each we see;Some softening gleam of love and prayerShall dawn on every cross and care.We need not bid, for cloistered cell,Our neighbor and our work farewell,Nor strive to wind ourselves too highFor sinful man beneath the sky.The trivial round, the common task,Will furnish all we ought to ask:Room to deny ourselves a roadTo bring us daily nearer God.Seek we no more; content with these,Let present rapture, comfort, ease,As Heaven shall bid them, come and go;The secret, this, of rest below.Only, O Lord, in thy dear loveFit us for perfect rest above;And help us this and every day,To live more nearly as we pray.—John Keble.

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

New every morning is the love

Our wakening and uprising prove;

Through sleep and darkness safely brought,

Restored to life, and power, and thought.

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

New mercies each returning day

Hover around us while we pray;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

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

If on our daily course our mind

Be set to hallow all we find,

New treasures still, of countless price,

God will provide for sacrifice.

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

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be

As more of heaven in each we see;

Some softening gleam of love and prayer

Shall dawn on every cross and care.

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

We need not bid, for cloistered cell,

Our neighbor and our work farewell,

Nor strive to wind ourselves too high

For sinful man beneath the sky.

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

The trivial round, the common task,

Will furnish all we ought to ask:

Room to deny ourselves a road

To bring us daily nearer God.

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

Seek we no more; content with these,

Let present rapture, comfort, ease,

As Heaven shall bid them, come and go;

The secret, this, of rest below.

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

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love

Fit us for perfect rest above;

And help us this and every day,

To live more nearly as we pray.

—John Keble.

———

Let nothing disturb thee,Nothing affright thee;All things are passing;God never changeth;Patient enduranceAttaineth to all things;Who God possessethIn nothing is wanting;Alone God sufficeth.—St. Teresa, tr. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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

Let nothing disturb thee,

Nothing affright thee;

All things are passing;

God never changeth;

Patient endurance

Attaineth to all things;

Who God possesseth

In nothing is wanting;

Alone God sufficeth.

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

———

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

He that holds fast the golden mean

And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,

Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Embittering all his state.

———

If every man's internal careWere written on his brow,How many would our pity shareWho raise our envy now?The fatal secret, when revealed,Of every aching breast,Would prove that only while concealedTheir lot appeared the best.—Pietro Metastasio.

If every man's internal careWere written on his brow,How many would our pity shareWho raise our envy now?

If every man's internal care

Were written on his brow,

How many would our pity share

Who raise our envy now?

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

The fatal secret, when revealed,

Of every aching breast,

Would prove that only while concealed

Their lot appeared the best.

—Pietro Metastasio.

———

Let us be content in workTo do the thing we can, and not presumeTo fret because it's little.—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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

Let us be content in work

To do the thing we can, and not presume

To fret because it's little.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

———

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

If none were sick and none were sad,

What service could we render?

I think ifwewere always glad,

We scarcely could be tender.

If sorrow never claimed our heart,

And every wish were granted,

Patience would die and hope depart—

Life would be disenchanted.

———

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

A pilgrim, bound to Mecca, quite away his sandals wore,

And on the desert's blistering sand his feet grew very sore.

"To let me suffer thus, great Allah, is not kind nor just,

While in thine service I confront the painful heat and dust."

He murmured in complaining tone; and in this temper came

To where, around the Kaaba, pilgrims knelt of every name;

And there he saw, while pity and remorse his bosom beat,

A pilgrim who not only wanted shoes, butfeet.

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

———

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

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

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

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

Strength for to-day is all that we need,

As there never will be a to-morrow;

For to-morrow will prove but another to-day

With its measure of joy or of sorrow.

———

Don't think your lot the worst becauseSome griefs your joy assail;There aren't so very many sawsThat never strike a nail.—Nixon Waterman.

Don't think your lot the worst becauseSome griefs your joy assail;There aren't so very many sawsThat never strike a nail.

Don't think your lot the worst because

Some griefs your joy assail;

There aren't so very many saws

That never strike a nail.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

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

When it drizzles and drizzles,

If we cheerfully smile,

We can make the weather,

By working together,

As fair as we choose in a little while.

For who will notice that clouds are drear

If pleasant faces are always near,

And who will remember that skies are gray

If he carries a happy heart all day?

Heaven is not reached by a single bound;But we build the ladder by which we riseFrom the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,And we mount to its summit round by round.I count this thing to be grandly true:That the noble deed is a step toward God,Lifting the soul from the common clodTo a purer air and a broader view.We rise by the things that are under feet;By what we have mastered of good and gain,By the pride deposed and the passion slain,And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,When the morning calls us to life and light;But our hearts grow weary, and ere the nightOur lives are treading the sordid dust.We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,And we think that we mount the air on wings,Beyond the recall of sensual things,While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.Wings for the angels, but feet for men!We may borrow the wings to find the way;We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray;But our feet must rise, or we fall again.Only in dreams is a ladder thrownFrom the weary earth to the sapphire walls,But the dreams depart, and the vision falls,And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.Heaven is not reached at a single bound;But we build the ladder by which we riseFrom the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,And we mount to its summit round by round.—Josiah Gilbert Holland.

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

Heaven is not reached by a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise

From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,

And we mount to its summit round by round.

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

I count this thing to be grandly true:

That the noble deed is a step toward God,

Lifting the soul from the common clod

To a purer air and a broader view.

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

We rise by the things that are under feet;

By what we have mastered of good and gain,

By the pride deposed and the passion slain,

And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

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

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light;

But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night

Our lives are treading the sordid dust.

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

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings,

Beyond the recall of sensual things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

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

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way;

We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray;

But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

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

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls,

But the dreams depart, and the vision falls,

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

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

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise

From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,

And we mount to its summit round by round.

—Josiah Gilbert Holland.

———

Purer yet and purerI would be in mind,Dearer yet and dearerEvery duty find;Hoping still and trustingGod without a fear,Patiently believingHe will make it clear.Calmer yet and calmerTrials bear and pain,Surer yet and surerPeace at last to gain;Suffering still and doing,To his will resigned,And to God subduingHeart and will and mind.Higher yet and higherOut of clouds and night,Nearer yet and nearerRising to the light—Light serene and holy—Where my soul may rest,Purified and lowly,Sanctified and blest.—Johann W. von Goethe.

Purer yet and purerI would be in mind,Dearer yet and dearerEvery duty find;Hoping still and trustingGod without a fear,Patiently believingHe will make it clear.

Purer yet and purer

I would be in mind,

Dearer yet and dearer

Every duty find;

Hoping still and trusting

God without a fear,

Patiently believing

He will make it clear.

Calmer yet and calmerTrials bear and pain,Surer yet and surerPeace at last to gain;Suffering still and doing,To his will resigned,And to God subduingHeart and will and mind.

Calmer yet and calmer

Trials bear and pain,

Surer yet and surer

Peace at last to gain;

Suffering still and doing,

To his will resigned,

And to God subduing

Heart and will and mind.

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

Higher yet and higher

Out of clouds and night,

Nearer yet and nearer

Rising to the light—

Light serene and holy—

Where my soul may rest,

Purified and lowly,

Sanctified and blest.

—Johann W. von Goethe.

———

This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren singsAnd coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the last year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in its last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn;While on my ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vastTill thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

This is the ship of pearl which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

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

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed—

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.

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

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the last year's dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in its last-found home, and knew the old no more.

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

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn;

While on my ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

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

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

———

My Saviour, on the Word of TruthIn earnest hope I live,I ask for all the precious thingsThy boundless love can give.I look for many a lesser lightAbout my path to shine;But chiefly long to walk with thee,And only trust in thine.Thou knowest that I am not blestAs Thou would'st have me beTill all the peace and joy of faithPossess my soul in thee;And still I seek 'mid many fears,With yearnings unexpressed,The comfort of thy strengthening love,Thy soothing, settling rest.It is not as Thou wilt with meTill, humbled in the dust,I know no place in all my heartWherein to put my trust:Until I find, O Lord! in thee—The lowly and the meek—That fullness which thy own redeemedGo nowhere else to seek.Then, O my Saviour! on my soul,Cast down but not dismayed,Still be thy chastening healing handIn tender mercy laid:And while I wait for all thy joysMy yearning heart to fill,Teach me to walk and work with thee,And at thy feet sit still.—Anna Letitia Waring.

My Saviour, on the Word of Truth

In earnest hope I live,

I ask for all the precious things

Thy boundless love can give.

I look for many a lesser light

About my path to shine;

But chiefly long to walk with thee,

And only trust in thine.

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

Thou knowest that I am not blest

As Thou would'st have me be

Till all the peace and joy of faith

Possess my soul in thee;

And still I seek 'mid many fears,

With yearnings unexpressed,

The comfort of thy strengthening love,

Thy soothing, settling rest.

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

It is not as Thou wilt with me

Till, humbled in the dust,

I know no place in all my heart

Wherein to put my trust:

Until I find, O Lord! in thee—

The lowly and the meek—

That fullness which thy own redeemed

Go nowhere else to seek.

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

Then, O my Saviour! on my soul,

Cast down but not dismayed,

Still be thy chastening healing hand

In tender mercy laid:

And while I wait for all thy joys

My yearning heart to fill,

Teach me to walk and work with thee,

And at thy feet sit still.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

———

God of the roadside weed,Grant I may humbly serve the humblest need.God of the scarlet rose,Give me the beauty that Thy love bestows.God of the hairy bee,Help me to suck deep joys from all I see.God of the spider's lace,Let me, from mine own heart, unwind such grace.God of the lily's cup,Fill me! I hold this empty chalice up.God of the sea-gull's wing,Bear me above each dark and turbulent thing.God of the watchful owl,Help me to see at midnight, like this fowl.God of the antelope,Teach me to scale the highest crags of Hope.God of the eagle's nest,Oh, let me make my eyrie near thy breast!God of the burrowing mole,Let cold earth have no terrors for my soul.God of the chrysalis,Grant that my grave may be a cell of bliss.God of the butterfly,Help me to vanquish Death, although I die.—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

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

God of the roadside weed,

Grant I may humbly serve the humblest need.

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

God of the scarlet rose,

Give me the beauty that Thy love bestows.

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

God of the hairy bee,

Help me to suck deep joys from all I see.

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

God of the spider's lace,

Let me, from mine own heart, unwind such grace.

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

God of the lily's cup,

Fill me! I hold this empty chalice up.

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

God of the sea-gull's wing,

Bear me above each dark and turbulent thing.

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

God of the watchful owl,

Help me to see at midnight, like this fowl.

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

God of the antelope,

Teach me to scale the highest crags of Hope.

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

God of the eagle's nest,

Oh, let me make my eyrie near thy breast!

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

God of the burrowing mole,

Let cold earth have no terrors for my soul.

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

God of the chrysalis,

Grant that my grave may be a cell of bliss.

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

God of the butterfly,

Help me to vanquish Death, although I die.

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

———

O Jesus Christ, grow thou in me,And all things else recede!My heart be daily nearer thee,From sin be daily freed.Each day let Thy supporting mightMy weakness still embrace;My darkness vanish in thy light,Thy life my death efface.In thy bright beams which on me fallFade every evil thought;That I am nothing, Thou art all,I would be daily taught.More of thy glory let me see,Thou holy, wise and true,I would thy living image be,In joy and sorrow too.Fill me with gladness from above,Hold me by strength divine;Lord, let the glow of thy great loveThrough my whole being shine.Make this poor self grow less and less;Be Thou my life and aim;Oh, make me daily through thy graceMore meet to bear thy name!Let faith in Thee and in thy mightMy every motive move;Be thou alone my soul's delight,My passion and my love.—Henry B. Smith.

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

O Jesus Christ, grow thou in me,

And all things else recede!

My heart be daily nearer thee,

From sin be daily freed.

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

Each day let Thy supporting might

My weakness still embrace;

My darkness vanish in thy light,

Thy life my death efface.

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

In thy bright beams which on me fall

Fade every evil thought;

That I am nothing, Thou art all,

I would be daily taught.

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

More of thy glory let me see,

Thou holy, wise and true,

I would thy living image be,

In joy and sorrow too.

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

Fill me with gladness from above,

Hold me by strength divine;

Lord, let the glow of thy great love

Through my whole being shine.

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

Make this poor self grow less and less;

Be Thou my life and aim;

Oh, make me daily through thy grace

More meet to bear thy name!

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

Let faith in Thee and in thy might

My every motive move;

Be thou alone my soul's delight,

My passion and my love.

—Henry B. Smith.

———

Looking upward every day,Sunshine on our faces,Pressing onward every dayToward the heavenly places;Growing every day in awe,For thy name is holy;Learning every day to loveWith a love more lowly.Walking every day more closeTo our Elder Brother;Growing every day more trueUnto one another;Every day more gratefullyKindnesses receiving,Every day more readilyInjuries forgiving.Leaving every day behindSomething which might hinder;Running swifter every day,Growing purer, kinder—Lord, so pray we every day;Hear us in thy pity,That we enter in at lastTo the holy city.—Mary Butler.

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

Looking upward every day,

Sunshine on our faces,

Pressing onward every day

Toward the heavenly places;

Growing every day in awe,

For thy name is holy;

Learning every day to love

With a love more lowly.

Walking every day more closeTo our Elder Brother;Growing every day more trueUnto one another;Every day more gratefullyKindnesses receiving,Every day more readilyInjuries forgiving.

Walking every day more close

To our Elder Brother;

Growing every day more true

Unto one another;

Every day more gratefully

Kindnesses receiving,

Every day more readily

Injuries forgiving.

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

Leaving every day behind

Something which might hinder;

Running swifter every day,

Growing purer, kinder—

Lord, so pray we every day;

Hear us in thy pity,

That we enter in at last

To the holy city.

—Mary Butler.

———

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

Better to have the poet's heart than brain,

Feeling than song; but, better far than both,

To be a song, a music of God's making.

Or but a table on which God's finger of flame,

In words harmonious of triumphant verse,

That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear

That out of darkness he hath called the light.

It may be voice to such is after given

To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.

—George Macdonald.

———

The bird let loose in eastern skies,When hastening fondly home,Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor fliesWhere idle warblers roam;But high she shoots through air and lightAbove all low delay,Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,Nor shadow dims her way.So grant me, God, from every careAnd stain of passion free,Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,To hold my course to thee!No sin to cloud, no lure to stayMy soul, as home she springs;Thy sunshine on her joyful way,Thy freedom in her wings!—Thomas Moore.

The bird let loose in eastern skies,

When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light

Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,

Nor shadow dims her way.

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

So grant me, God, from every care

And stain of passion free,

Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,

To hold my course to thee!

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay

My soul, as home she springs;

Thy sunshine on her joyful way,

Thy freedom in her wings!

—Thomas Moore.

———

O that mine eyes might closèd beTo what concerns me not to see;That deafness might possess mine earTo what concerns me not to hear;That truth my tongue might always tieFrom ever speaking foolishly;That no vain thought might ever restOr be conceived within my breast;That by each deed and word and thoughtGlory may to my God be brought.But what are wishes! Lord, mine eyeOn Thee is fixed; to Thee I cry!Wash, Lord, and purify my heart,And make it clean in every part;And when 'tis clean, Lord, keep it, too,For that is more than I can do.—Thomas Elwood, A.D. 1639.

O that mine eyes might closèd be

To what concerns me not to see;

That deafness might possess mine ear

To what concerns me not to hear;

That truth my tongue might always tie

From ever speaking foolishly;

That no vain thought might ever rest

Or be conceived within my breast;

That by each deed and word and thought

Glory may to my God be brought.

But what are wishes! Lord, mine eye

On Thee is fixed; to Thee I cry!

Wash, Lord, and purify my heart,

And make it clean in every part;

And when 'tis clean, Lord, keep it, too,

For that is more than I can do.

—Thomas Elwood, A.D. 1639.

———

O the bitter shame and sorrow,That a time could ever beWhen I let the Saviour's pityPlead in vain, and proudly answered,"All of self, and none of Thee!"Yet He found me; I beheld himBleeding on the accursèd tree,Heard him pray, "Forgive them, Father!"And my wistful heart said faintly,"Some of self and some of Thee."Day by day his tender mercy,Healing, helping, full and free,Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient,Brought me lower, while I whispered,"Less of self, and more of Thee."Higher than the highest heaven,Deeper than the deepest sea,Lord, thy love at last hath conquered;Grant me now my supplication—"None of self, and all of Thee."—Theodore Monod.

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

O the bitter shame and sorrow,

That a time could ever be

When I let the Saviour's pity

Plead in vain, and proudly answered,

"All of self, and none of Thee!"

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

Yet He found me; I beheld him

Bleeding on the accursèd tree,

Heard him pray, "Forgive them, Father!"

And my wistful heart said faintly,

"Some of self and some of Thee."

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

Day by day his tender mercy,

Healing, helping, full and free,

Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient,

Brought me lower, while I whispered,

"Less of self, and more of Thee."

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

Higher than the highest heaven,

Deeper than the deepest sea,

Lord, thy love at last hath conquered;

Grant me now my supplication—

"None of self, and all of Thee."

—Theodore Monod.

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