The woman singeth at her spinning wheelA pleasant chant, ballad, or baracolle;She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,Far more than of her flax; and yet the reelIs full, and artfully her fingers feel,With quick adjustment, provident control,The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,Out to a perfect thread. I hence appealTo the dear Christian Church, that we may doOur Father's business in these temples mirkThus, swift and steadfast; thus, intent and strong;While, thus, apart from toil, our souls pursueSome high, calm, spheric tune and prove our workThe better for the sweetness of our song.—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The woman singeth at her spinning wheelA pleasant chant, ballad, or baracolle;She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,Far more than of her flax; and yet the reelIs full, and artfully her fingers feel,With quick adjustment, provident control,The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,Out to a perfect thread. I hence appealTo the dear Christian Church, that we may doOur Father's business in these temples mirkThus, swift and steadfast; thus, intent and strong;While, thus, apart from toil, our souls pursueSome high, calm, spheric tune and prove our workThe better for the sweetness of our song.
The woman singeth at her spinning wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad, or baracolle;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel,
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian Church, that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk
Thus, swift and steadfast; thus, intent and strong;
While, thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high, calm, spheric tune and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
———
The deed ye do is the prayer ye pray;"Lead us into temptation, Lord;Withhold the bread from our babes this day;To evil we turn us, give evil's reward!"Over to-day the to-morrow bendsWith an answer for each acted prayer;And woe to him who makes not friendsWith the pale hereafter hovering there.—George S. Burleigh.
The deed ye do is the prayer ye pray;"Lead us into temptation, Lord;Withhold the bread from our babes this day;To evil we turn us, give evil's reward!"
The deed ye do is the prayer ye pray;
"Lead us into temptation, Lord;
Withhold the bread from our babes this day;
To evil we turn us, give evil's reward!"
Over to-day the to-morrow bendsWith an answer for each acted prayer;And woe to him who makes not friendsWith the pale hereafter hovering there.
Over to-day the to-morrow bends
With an answer for each acted prayer;
And woe to him who makes not friends
With the pale hereafter hovering there.
—George S. Burleigh.
—George S. Burleigh.
———
Not a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould,Where I must creep and in the dark and coldOffer some awful incense at a shrineThat hath no more divineThan that 'tis far from life, and stern, and old;But a bright hilltop, in the breezy airFull of the morning freshness, high and clear,Where I may climb and drink the pure new dayAnd see where winds awayThe path that God would send me, shining fair.—Edward Rowland Sill.
Not a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould,Where I must creep and in the dark and coldOffer some awful incense at a shrineThat hath no more divineThan that 'tis far from life, and stern, and old;
Not a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould,
Where I must creep and in the dark and cold
Offer some awful incense at a shrine
That hath no more divine
Than that 'tis far from life, and stern, and old;
But a bright hilltop, in the breezy airFull of the morning freshness, high and clear,Where I may climb and drink the pure new dayAnd see where winds awayThe path that God would send me, shining fair.
But a bright hilltop, in the breezy air
Full of the morning freshness, high and clear,
Where I may climb and drink the pure new day
And see where winds away
The path that God would send me, shining fair.
—Edward Rowland Sill.
—Edward Rowland Sill.
———
When prayer delights thee least, then learn to say,Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st pray:Crooked and warped I am, and I would fainStraighten myself by thy right line again.Oh, come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits;Pierce, genial showers, down to my parchèd roots.My well is bitter, cast therein the tree,That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be.Say, what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed?The mighty utterance of a mighty need.The man is praying who doth press with mightOut of his darkness into God's own light.White heat the iron in the furnace won,Withdrawn from thence 'twas cold and hard anon.Flowers, from their stalk divided, presentlyDroop, fall, and wither in the gazer's eye.The greenest leaf, divided from its stem,To speedy withering doth itself condemn.The largest river, from its fountain-headCut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed.All things that live from God their sustenance wait,And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.All skirts extended of thy mantle holdWhen angel hands from heaven are scattering gold.—Richard Chenevix Trench.
When prayer delights thee least, then learn to say,Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st pray:
When prayer delights thee least, then learn to say,
Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st pray:
Crooked and warped I am, and I would fainStraighten myself by thy right line again.
Crooked and warped I am, and I would fain
Straighten myself by thy right line again.
Oh, come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits;Pierce, genial showers, down to my parchèd roots.
Oh, come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits;
Pierce, genial showers, down to my parchèd roots.
My well is bitter, cast therein the tree,That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be.
My well is bitter, cast therein the tree,
That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be.
Say, what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed?The mighty utterance of a mighty need.
Say, what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed?
The mighty utterance of a mighty need.
The man is praying who doth press with mightOut of his darkness into God's own light.
The man is praying who doth press with might
Out of his darkness into God's own light.
White heat the iron in the furnace won,Withdrawn from thence 'twas cold and hard anon.
White heat the iron in the furnace won,
Withdrawn from thence 'twas cold and hard anon.
Flowers, from their stalk divided, presentlyDroop, fall, and wither in the gazer's eye.
Flowers, from their stalk divided, presently
Droop, fall, and wither in the gazer's eye.
The greenest leaf, divided from its stem,To speedy withering doth itself condemn.
The greenest leaf, divided from its stem,
To speedy withering doth itself condemn.
The largest river, from its fountain-headCut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed.
The largest river, from its fountain-head
Cut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed.
All things that live from God their sustenance wait,And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.
All things that live from God their sustenance wait,
And sun and moon are beggars at his gate.
All skirts extended of thy mantle holdWhen angel hands from heaven are scattering gold.
All skirts extended of thy mantle hold
When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
———
One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread—To have a secret spotThat separates my soul from thee,And yet to know it not.Prayer was not meant for luxury,Or selfish pastime sweet;It is the prostrate creature's placeAt his Creator's feet.But if this waiting long hath comeA present from on high,Teach me to find the hidden wealthThat in its depths may lie.So in the darkness I can learnTo tremble and adore;To sound my own vile nothingness,And thus to love thee more.—Frederick William Faber.
One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread—To have a secret spotThat separates my soul from thee,And yet to know it not.
One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread—
To have a secret spot
That separates my soul from thee,
And yet to know it not.
Prayer was not meant for luxury,Or selfish pastime sweet;It is the prostrate creature's placeAt his Creator's feet.
Prayer was not meant for luxury,
Or selfish pastime sweet;
It is the prostrate creature's place
At his Creator's feet.
But if this waiting long hath comeA present from on high,Teach me to find the hidden wealthThat in its depths may lie.
But if this waiting long hath come
A present from on high,
Teach me to find the hidden wealth
That in its depths may lie.
So in the darkness I can learnTo tremble and adore;To sound my own vile nothingness,And thus to love thee more.
So in the darkness I can learn
To tremble and adore;
To sound my own vile nothingness,
And thus to love thee more.
—Frederick William Faber.
—Frederick William Faber.
———
To stretch my hand and touch HimThough he be far away;To raise my eyes and see himThrough darkness as through day;To lift my voice and call him—This is to pray!To feel a hand extendedBy One who standeth near;To view the love that shinethIn eyes serene and clear;To know that he is calling—This is to hear!—Samuel W. Duffield.
To stretch my hand and touch HimThough he be far away;To raise my eyes and see himThrough darkness as through day;To lift my voice and call him—This is to pray!
To stretch my hand and touch Him
Though he be far away;
To raise my eyes and see him
Through darkness as through day;
To lift my voice and call him—
This is to pray!
To feel a hand extendedBy One who standeth near;To view the love that shinethIn eyes serene and clear;To know that he is calling—This is to hear!
To feel a hand extended
By One who standeth near;
To view the love that shineth
In eyes serene and clear;
To know that he is calling—
This is to hear!
—Samuel W. Duffield.
—Samuel W. Duffield.
———
Being perplexed, I say,"Lord, make it right!Night is as day to thee,Darkness is light.I am afraid to touchThings that involve so much;My trembling hand may shake—My skillful hand may break;Thine can make no mistake."Being in doubt, I say,"Lord, make it plain!Which is the true, safe way?Which would be vain?I am not wise to know,Nor sure of foot to go;My blind eyes cannot seeWhat is so clear to thee.Lord, make it clear to me."
Being perplexed, I say,"Lord, make it right!Night is as day to thee,Darkness is light.I am afraid to touchThings that involve so much;My trembling hand may shake—My skillful hand may break;Thine can make no mistake."
Being perplexed, I say,
"Lord, make it right!
Night is as day to thee,
Darkness is light.
I am afraid to touch
Things that involve so much;
My trembling hand may shake—
My skillful hand may break;
Thine can make no mistake."
Being in doubt, I say,"Lord, make it plain!Which is the true, safe way?Which would be vain?I am not wise to know,Nor sure of foot to go;My blind eyes cannot seeWhat is so clear to thee.Lord, make it clear to me."
Being in doubt, I say,
"Lord, make it plain!
Which is the true, safe way?
Which would be vain?
I am not wise to know,
Nor sure of foot to go;
My blind eyes cannot see
What is so clear to thee.
Lord, make it clear to me."
———
There is an eye that never sleepsBeneath the wing of night;There is an ear that never shutsWhen sink the beams of light.There is an arm that never tiresWhen human strength gives way;There is a love that never failsWhen earthly loves decay.That eye is fixed on seraph throngs;That arm upholds the sky;That ear is filled with angel songs,That love is throned on high.But there's a power which man can wieldWhen mortal aid is vain,That eye, that arm, that love to reach,That listening ear to gain.That power is prayer, which soars on high,Through Jesus, to the throne,And moves the hand which moves the world,To bring salvation down.—James Cowden Wallace.
There is an eye that never sleepsBeneath the wing of night;There is an ear that never shutsWhen sink the beams of light.
There is an eye that never sleeps
Beneath the wing of night;
There is an ear that never shuts
When sink the beams of light.
There is an arm that never tiresWhen human strength gives way;There is a love that never failsWhen earthly loves decay.
There is an arm that never tires
When human strength gives way;
There is a love that never fails
When earthly loves decay.
That eye is fixed on seraph throngs;That arm upholds the sky;That ear is filled with angel songs,That love is throned on high.
That eye is fixed on seraph throngs;
That arm upholds the sky;
That ear is filled with angel songs,
That love is throned on high.
But there's a power which man can wieldWhen mortal aid is vain,That eye, that arm, that love to reach,That listening ear to gain.
But there's a power which man can wield
When mortal aid is vain,
That eye, that arm, that love to reach,
That listening ear to gain.
That power is prayer, which soars on high,Through Jesus, to the throne,And moves the hand which moves the world,To bring salvation down.
That power is prayer, which soars on high,
Through Jesus, to the throne,
And moves the hand which moves the world,
To bring salvation down.
—James Cowden Wallace.
—James Cowden Wallace.
———
Three doors there are in the templeWhere men go up to pray,And they that wait at the outer gateMay enter by either way.There are some that pray by asking;They lie on the Master's breast,And, shunning the strife of the lower life,They utter their cry for rest.There are some that pray by seeking;They doubt where their reason fails;But their mind's despair is the ancient prayerTo touch the print of the nails.There are some that pray by knocking;They put their strength to the wheelFor they have not time for thoughts sublime;They can only act what they feel.Father, give each his answer,Each in his kindred way;Adapt thy light to his form of nightAnd grant him his needed day.—William Watson.
Three doors there are in the templeWhere men go up to pray,And they that wait at the outer gateMay enter by either way.
Three doors there are in the temple
Where men go up to pray,
And they that wait at the outer gate
May enter by either way.
There are some that pray by asking;They lie on the Master's breast,And, shunning the strife of the lower life,They utter their cry for rest.
There are some that pray by asking;
They lie on the Master's breast,
And, shunning the strife of the lower life,
They utter their cry for rest.
There are some that pray by seeking;They doubt where their reason fails;But their mind's despair is the ancient prayerTo touch the print of the nails.
There are some that pray by seeking;
They doubt where their reason fails;
But their mind's despair is the ancient prayer
To touch the print of the nails.
There are some that pray by knocking;They put their strength to the wheelFor they have not time for thoughts sublime;They can only act what they feel.
There are some that pray by knocking;
They put their strength to the wheel
For they have not time for thoughts sublime;
They can only act what they feel.
Father, give each his answer,Each in his kindred way;Adapt thy light to his form of nightAnd grant him his needed day.
Father, give each his answer,
Each in his kindred way;
Adapt thy light to his form of night
And grant him his needed day.
—William Watson.
—William Watson.
———
It is not prayer,This clamor of our eager wantsThat fills the airWith wearying, selfish plaints.It is not faithTo boldly count all gifts as ours—The pride that saith,"For me his wealth he ever showers."It is not praiseTo call to mind our happier lot,And boast bright days,God-favored, with all else forgot.
It is not prayer,This clamor of our eager wantsThat fills the airWith wearying, selfish plaints.
It is not prayer,
This clamor of our eager wants
That fills the air
With wearying, selfish plaints.
It is not faithTo boldly count all gifts as ours—The pride that saith,"For me his wealth he ever showers."
It is not faith
To boldly count all gifts as ours—
The pride that saith,
"For me his wealth he ever showers."
It is not praiseTo call to mind our happier lot,And boast bright days,God-favored, with all else forgot.
It is not praise
To call to mind our happier lot,
And boast bright days,
God-favored, with all else forgot.
It is true prayerTo seek the giver more than giftGod's life to shareAnd love—for this our cry to lift.It is true faithTo simply trust his loving will,Whiche'er he saith—"Thy lot be glad" or "ill."It is true praiseTo bless alike the bright and dark;To sing, all daysAlike, with nightingale and lark.—James W. White.
It is true prayerTo seek the giver more than giftGod's life to shareAnd love—for this our cry to lift.
It is true prayer
To seek the giver more than gift
God's life to share
And love—for this our cry to lift.
It is true faithTo simply trust his loving will,Whiche'er he saith—"Thy lot be glad" or "ill."
It is true faith
To simply trust his loving will,
Whiche'er he saith—
"Thy lot be glad" or "ill."
It is true praiseTo bless alike the bright and dark;To sing, all daysAlike, with nightingale and lark.
It is true praise
To bless alike the bright and dark;
To sing, all days
Alike, with nightingale and lark.
—James W. White.
—James W. White.
———
Lord, what a change within us one short hourSpent in thy presence will prevail to make;What heavy burdens from our bosoms take;What parchèd grounds refresh as with a shower!We kneel—and all about us seems to lower;We rise—and all, the distant and the near,Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear.We kneel, how weak! we rise, how full of power!Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,Or others, that we are not always strong;That we are ever overborne with care,Anxious and troubled, when with us is prayer,And joy and strength and courage are with thee?—Richard Chenevix Trench.
Lord, what a change within us one short hourSpent in thy presence will prevail to make;What heavy burdens from our bosoms take;What parchèd grounds refresh as with a shower!We kneel—and all about us seems to lower;We rise—and all, the distant and the near,Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear.We kneel, how weak! we rise, how full of power!Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,Or others, that we are not always strong;That we are ever overborne with care,Anxious and troubled, when with us is prayer,And joy and strength and courage are with thee?
Lord, what a change within us one short hour
Spent in thy presence will prevail to make;
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take;
What parchèd grounds refresh as with a shower!
We kneel—and all about us seems to lower;
We rise—and all, the distant and the near,
Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear.
We kneel, how weak! we rise, how full of power!
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,
Or others, that we are not always strong;
That we are ever overborne with care,
Anxious and troubled, when with us is prayer,
And joy and strength and courage are with thee?
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
—Richard Chenevix Trench.
———
Asked and unasked, thy heavenly gifts unfold,And evil, though we ask it, Lord, withhold.—Homer, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
Asked and unasked, thy heavenly gifts unfold,And evil, though we ask it, Lord, withhold.
Asked and unasked, thy heavenly gifts unfold,
And evil, though we ask it, Lord, withhold.
—Homer, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
—Homer, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.
———
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,Nor other thought her mind admitsBut, he was dead, and there he sits.And he that brought him back is there.Then one deep love doth supersedeAll other, when her ardent gazeRoves from the living brother's faceAnd rests upon the Life indeed.All subtle thought, all curious fears.Borne down by gladness so complete,She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feetWith costly spikenard and with tears.Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,Whose loves in higher love endure;What souls possess themselves so pure,Or is there blessedness like theirs?—Alfred Tennyson.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,Nor other thought her mind admitsBut, he was dead, and there he sits.And he that brought him back is there.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits.
And he that brought him back is there.
Then one deep love doth supersedeAll other, when her ardent gazeRoves from the living brother's faceAnd rests upon the Life indeed.
Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face
And rests upon the Life indeed.
All subtle thought, all curious fears.Borne down by gladness so complete,She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feetWith costly spikenard and with tears.
All subtle thought, all curious fears.
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,Whose loves in higher love endure;What souls possess themselves so pure,Or is there blessedness like theirs?
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?
—Alfred Tennyson.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
"Allah, Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through;Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like honey grew.But at morning came the Tempter; said, "Call louder, child of pain!See if Allah ever hear, or answer 'Here am I' again."Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went;To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, sent.Then before him stands Elias; says "My child! why thus dismayed?Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer afraid?""Ah!" he cried, "I've called so often; never heard the 'Here am I';And I thought, God will not pity, will not turn on me his eye."Then the grave Elias answered, "God said, 'Rise, Elias, go,Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf of woe."'Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry;That his prayer, "Come, gracious Allah," is my answer, "Here am I"'."Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled;And in every 'O my Father!' slumbers deep a 'Here, my child!'"—Jelal-ed-Deen, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
"Allah, Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through;Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like honey grew.
"Allah, Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through;
Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like honey grew.
But at morning came the Tempter; said, "Call louder, child of pain!See if Allah ever hear, or answer 'Here am I' again."
But at morning came the Tempter; said, "Call louder, child of pain!
See if Allah ever hear, or answer 'Here am I' again."
Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went;To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, sent.
Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went;
To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, sent.
Then before him stands Elias; says "My child! why thus dismayed?Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer afraid?"
Then before him stands Elias; says "My child! why thus dismayed?
Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer afraid?"
"Ah!" he cried, "I've called so often; never heard the 'Here am I';And I thought, God will not pity, will not turn on me his eye."
"Ah!" he cried, "I've called so often; never heard the 'Here am I';
And I thought, God will not pity, will not turn on me his eye."
Then the grave Elias answered, "God said, 'Rise, Elias, go,Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf of woe.
Then the grave Elias answered, "God said, 'Rise, Elias, go,
Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf of woe.
"'Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry;That his prayer, "Come, gracious Allah," is my answer, "Here am I"'.
"'Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry;
That his prayer, "Come, gracious Allah," is my answer, "Here am I"'.
"Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled;And in every 'O my Father!' slumbers deep a 'Here, my child!'"
"Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled;
And in every 'O my Father!' slumbers deep a 'Here, my child!'"
—Jelal-ed-Deen, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
—Jelal-ed-Deen, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
———
"Allah!" was all night long the cry of one oppressed with care,Till softened was his heart, and sweet became his lips with prayer.Then near the subtle tempter stole, and spake:"Fond babbler, cease!For not one 'Here am I' has God e'er sent to give thee peace."With sorrow sank the suppliant's soul and all his senses fled.But lo! at midnight, the good angel, Chiser, came, and said:"What ails thee now, my child, and why art thou afraid to pray?And why thy former love dost thou repent? declare and say.""Ah!" cries he, "never once spake God to me, 'Here am I, son.'Cast off methinks I am, and warned far from his gracious throne."To whom the angel answered, "Hear the word from God I bear:'Go tell,' he said, 'yon mourner, sunk in sorrow and despair,Each "Lord, appear!" thy lips pronounce contains my "Here am I";A special messenger I send beneath thine every sigh;Thy love is but a guerdon of the love I bear to thee.And sleeping in thy "Come, O Lord!" there lies "Here, son!" from me.'"—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.
"Allah!" was all night long the cry of one oppressed with care,Till softened was his heart, and sweet became his lips with prayer.Then near the subtle tempter stole, and spake:"Fond babbler, cease!For not one 'Here am I' has God e'er sent to give thee peace."With sorrow sank the suppliant's soul and all his senses fled.But lo! at midnight, the good angel, Chiser, came, and said:"What ails thee now, my child, and why art thou afraid to pray?And why thy former love dost thou repent? declare and say.""Ah!" cries he, "never once spake God to me, 'Here am I, son.'Cast off methinks I am, and warned far from his gracious throne."To whom the angel answered, "Hear the word from God I bear:'Go tell,' he said, 'yon mourner, sunk in sorrow and despair,Each "Lord, appear!" thy lips pronounce contains my "Here am I";A special messenger I send beneath thine every sigh;Thy love is but a guerdon of the love I bear to thee.And sleeping in thy "Come, O Lord!" there lies "Here, son!" from me.'"
"Allah!" was all night long the cry of one oppressed with care,
Till softened was his heart, and sweet became his lips with prayer.
Then near the subtle tempter stole, and spake:
"Fond babbler, cease!
For not one 'Here am I' has God e'er sent to give thee peace."
With sorrow sank the suppliant's soul and all his senses fled.
But lo! at midnight, the good angel, Chiser, came, and said:
"What ails thee now, my child, and why art thou afraid to pray?
And why thy former love dost thou repent? declare and say."
"Ah!" cries he, "never once spake God to me, 'Here am I, son.'
Cast off methinks I am, and warned far from his gracious throne."
To whom the angel answered, "Hear the word from God I bear:
'Go tell,' he said, 'yon mourner, sunk in sorrow and despair,
Each "Lord, appear!" thy lips pronounce contains my "Here am I";
A special messenger I send beneath thine every sigh;
Thy love is but a guerdon of the love I bear to thee.
And sleeping in thy "Come, O Lord!" there lies "Here, son!" from me.'"
—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.
—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.
———
He prayeth well who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.He prayeth best who loveth bestAll things, both great and small;For the dear God who loveth usHe made and loveth all.—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
He prayeth well who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.He prayeth best who loveth bestAll things, both great and small;For the dear God who loveth usHe made and loveth all.
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us
He made and loveth all.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
———
I love my God, but with no love of mine,For I have none to give;I love thee, Lord, but all the love is thineFor by thy love I live.I am as nothing, and rejoice to beEmptied and lost and swallowed up in thee.Thou, Lord, alone art all thy children need,And there is none beside;From thee the streams of blessedness proceed,In thee the blest abide—Fountain of life and all-abounding grace,Our source, our center, and our dwelling place.—Madame Guyon.
I love my God, but with no love of mine,For I have none to give;I love thee, Lord, but all the love is thineFor by thy love I live.I am as nothing, and rejoice to beEmptied and lost and swallowed up in thee.
I love my God, but with no love of mine,
For I have none to give;
I love thee, Lord, but all the love is thine
For by thy love I live.
I am as nothing, and rejoice to be
Emptied and lost and swallowed up in thee.
Thou, Lord, alone art all thy children need,And there is none beside;From thee the streams of blessedness proceed,In thee the blest abide—Fountain of life and all-abounding grace,Our source, our center, and our dwelling place.
Thou, Lord, alone art all thy children need,
And there is none beside;
From thee the streams of blessedness proceed,
In thee the blest abide—
Fountain of life and all-abounding grace,
Our source, our center, and our dwelling place.
—Madame Guyon.
—Madame Guyon.
———
O Master, let me walk with theeIn lowly paths of service free;Tell me thy secret; help me bearThe strain of toil, the fret of care.Help me the slow of heart to moveBy some clear, winning word of love;Teach me the wayward feet to stay,And guide them in the homeward way.Teach me thy patience! still with TheeIn closer, dearer company:In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,In trust that triumphs over wrong.In hope that sends a shining rayFar down the future's broadening way;In peace that only thou canst give,With thee, O Master, let me live.—Washington Gladden.
O Master, let me walk with theeIn lowly paths of service free;Tell me thy secret; help me bearThe strain of toil, the fret of care.
O Master, let me walk with thee
In lowly paths of service free;
Tell me thy secret; help me bear
The strain of toil, the fret of care.
Help me the slow of heart to moveBy some clear, winning word of love;Teach me the wayward feet to stay,And guide them in the homeward way.
Help me the slow of heart to move
By some clear, winning word of love;
Teach me the wayward feet to stay,
And guide them in the homeward way.
Teach me thy patience! still with TheeIn closer, dearer company:In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,In trust that triumphs over wrong.
Teach me thy patience! still with Thee
In closer, dearer company:
In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,
In trust that triumphs over wrong.
In hope that sends a shining rayFar down the future's broadening way;In peace that only thou canst give,With thee, O Master, let me live.
In hope that sends a shining ray
Far down the future's broadening way;
In peace that only thou canst give,
With thee, O Master, let me live.
—Washington Gladden.
—Washington Gladden.
———
There was a man who prayedFor wisdom that he mightSway men from sinful waysAnd lead them into light.Each night he knelt and asked the LordTo let him guide the sinful horde.And every day he rose again,To idly drift along,One of the many common menWho form the common throng.
There was a man who prayedFor wisdom that he mightSway men from sinful waysAnd lead them into light.Each night he knelt and asked the LordTo let him guide the sinful horde.And every day he rose again,To idly drift along,One of the many common menWho form the common throng.
There was a man who prayed
For wisdom that he might
Sway men from sinful ways
And lead them into light.
Each night he knelt and asked the Lord
To let him guide the sinful horde.
And every day he rose again,
To idly drift along,
One of the many common men
Who form the common throng.
———
To long with all our longing powers,And have the wish denied;To urge and strain our force in vainAgainst the unresting tideOf fate and circumstance, which stillBaffles and beats and thwarts our will;To reach the goal toward which we stroveAll the long way and hard;To win the prize which, to our eyes,Seemed life's one best reward—Love's rose, Fame's laurel, olived Peace,The gold-fruit of Hesperides—And then to find the prize all vain,The joys all empty made—To taste the sting in each sweet thing,To watch Love's roses fade,The fruit to ashes turn, the goldTo worthless dross within our hold!Now which has most of grief and pain,Which is the worse to bear:The joy we crave and never have,Or the curse of the granted prayer?The baffled wish or the bitter rue—Could our hearts choose between the two?O will of God, thou blessèd will!Which, like a balmèd air,The breath of souls about us rolls,Touching us everywhere,Imparting, like a soft caress,Healing, and help, and tenderness,O will of God, be thou our will!Then, come or joy or pain,Made one with thee it cannot beThat we shall wish in vain,And, whether granted or denied,Our hearts shall be all satisfied.—Susan Coolidge.
To long with all our longing powers,And have the wish denied;To urge and strain our force in vainAgainst the unresting tideOf fate and circumstance, which stillBaffles and beats and thwarts our will;
To long with all our longing powers,
And have the wish denied;
To urge and strain our force in vain
Against the unresting tide
Of fate and circumstance, which still
Baffles and beats and thwarts our will;
To reach the goal toward which we stroveAll the long way and hard;To win the prize which, to our eyes,Seemed life's one best reward—Love's rose, Fame's laurel, olived Peace,The gold-fruit of Hesperides—
To reach the goal toward which we strove
All the long way and hard;
To win the prize which, to our eyes,
Seemed life's one best reward—
Love's rose, Fame's laurel, olived Peace,
The gold-fruit of Hesperides—
And then to find the prize all vain,The joys all empty made—To taste the sting in each sweet thing,To watch Love's roses fade,The fruit to ashes turn, the goldTo worthless dross within our hold!
And then to find the prize all vain,
The joys all empty made—
To taste the sting in each sweet thing,
To watch Love's roses fade,
The fruit to ashes turn, the gold
To worthless dross within our hold!
Now which has most of grief and pain,Which is the worse to bear:The joy we crave and never have,Or the curse of the granted prayer?The baffled wish or the bitter rue—Could our hearts choose between the two?
Now which has most of grief and pain,
Which is the worse to bear:
The joy we crave and never have,
Or the curse of the granted prayer?
The baffled wish or the bitter rue—
Could our hearts choose between the two?
O will of God, thou blessèd will!Which, like a balmèd air,The breath of souls about us rolls,Touching us everywhere,Imparting, like a soft caress,Healing, and help, and tenderness,
O will of God, thou blessèd will!
Which, like a balmèd air,
The breath of souls about us rolls,
Touching us everywhere,
Imparting, like a soft caress,
Healing, and help, and tenderness,
O will of God, be thou our will!Then, come or joy or pain,Made one with thee it cannot beThat we shall wish in vain,And, whether granted or denied,Our hearts shall be all satisfied.
O will of God, be thou our will!
Then, come or joy or pain,
Made one with thee it cannot be
That we shall wish in vain,
And, whether granted or denied,
Our hearts shall be all satisfied.
—Susan Coolidge.
—Susan Coolidge.
———
Only a smile, yes, only a smileThat a woman o'erburdened with griefExpected from you; 'twould have given relief,For her heart ached sore the while;But weary and cheerless she went away,Because, as it happened, that very dayYou were "out of touch" with your Lord.Only a word, yes, only a word,That the Spirit's small voice whispered "Speak";But the worker passed onward unblessed and weakWhom you were meant to have stirredTo courage, devotion, and love anew,Because when the message came to youYou were "out of touch" with your Lord.Only a note, yes, only a noteTo a friend in a distant land.The Spirit said "Write," but then you had plannedSome different work, and you thoughtIt mattered little. You did not know'Twould have saved a soul from sin and woe;You were "out of touch" with your Lord.Only a song, yes, only a songThat the Spirit said "Sing to-night;Thy voice is thy Master's by purchased right";But you thought, "'Mid this motley throngI care not to sing of the city of gold"—And the heart that your words might have reached grew cold;You were "out of touch" with your Lord.Only a day, yes, only a day!But oh, can you guess, my friend,Where the influence reaches, and where it will endOf the hours that you frittered away?The Master's command is "Abide in me"And fruitless and vain will your service beIf "out of touch" with your Lord.—Jean H. Watson.
Only a smile, yes, only a smileThat a woman o'erburdened with griefExpected from you; 'twould have given relief,For her heart ached sore the while;But weary and cheerless she went away,Because, as it happened, that very dayYou were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a smile, yes, only a smile
That a woman o'erburdened with grief
Expected from you; 'twould have given relief,
For her heart ached sore the while;
But weary and cheerless she went away,
Because, as it happened, that very day
You were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a word, yes, only a word,That the Spirit's small voice whispered "Speak";But the worker passed onward unblessed and weakWhom you were meant to have stirredTo courage, devotion, and love anew,Because when the message came to youYou were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a word, yes, only a word,
That the Spirit's small voice whispered "Speak";
But the worker passed onward unblessed and weak
Whom you were meant to have stirred
To courage, devotion, and love anew,
Because when the message came to you
You were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a note, yes, only a noteTo a friend in a distant land.The Spirit said "Write," but then you had plannedSome different work, and you thoughtIt mattered little. You did not know'Twould have saved a soul from sin and woe;You were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a note, yes, only a note
To a friend in a distant land.
The Spirit said "Write," but then you had planned
Some different work, and you thought
It mattered little. You did not know
'Twould have saved a soul from sin and woe;
You were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a song, yes, only a songThat the Spirit said "Sing to-night;Thy voice is thy Master's by purchased right";But you thought, "'Mid this motley throngI care not to sing of the city of gold"—And the heart that your words might have reached grew cold;You were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a song, yes, only a song
That the Spirit said "Sing to-night;
Thy voice is thy Master's by purchased right";
But you thought, "'Mid this motley throng
I care not to sing of the city of gold"—
And the heart that your words might have reached grew cold;
You were "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a day, yes, only a day!But oh, can you guess, my friend,Where the influence reaches, and where it will endOf the hours that you frittered away?The Master's command is "Abide in me"And fruitless and vain will your service beIf "out of touch" with your Lord.
Only a day, yes, only a day!
But oh, can you guess, my friend,
Where the influence reaches, and where it will end
Of the hours that you frittered away?
The Master's command is "Abide in me"
And fruitless and vain will your service be
If "out of touch" with your Lord.
—Jean H. Watson.
—Jean H. Watson.
———
Prayer is Innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Prayer is Innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.
Prayer is Innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant
'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
———
We may question with wand of science,Explain, decide, and discuss;But only in meditationThe Mystery speaks to us.—John Boyle O'Reilly.
We may question with wand of science,Explain, decide, and discuss;But only in meditationThe Mystery speaks to us.
We may question with wand of science,
Explain, decide, and discuss;
But only in meditation
The Mystery speaks to us.
—John Boyle O'Reilly.
—John Boyle O'Reilly.
———
I walk down the Valley of Silence,Down the dim, voiceless valley alone!And I hear not the fall of a footstepAround me—save God's and my own!And the hush of my heart is as holyAs hovers where angels have flown.Long ago was I weary of voicesWhose music my heart could not win;Long ago was I weary of noisesThat fretted my soul with their din;Long ago was I weary of placesWhere I met but the human and sin.And still did I pine for the perfect,And still found the false with the true;I sought 'mid the human for heaven,But caught a mere glimpse of the blue;And I wept when the clouds of the world veiledEventhatglimpse from my view.And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human,And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men,Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar,And heard a Voice call me. Since thenI walk down the Valley of SilenceThat lies far beyond mortal ken.Do you ask what I found in the Valley?'Tis my trysting place with the Divine.When I fell at the feet of the Holy,And about me a voice said, "Be mine,"There arose from the depths of my spiritAn echo: "My heart shall be thine."Do you ask how I live in the Valley?I weep, and I dream, and I pray;But my tears are as sweet as the dew-dropsThat fall on the roses in May;And my prayer, like a perfume from censer,Ascendeth to God night and day.In the hush of the Valley of Silence,I dream all the songs that I sing;And the music floats down the dim valleyTill each finds a word for a wing,That to men, like the doves of the delugeThe message of peace they may bring.But far out on the deep there are billowsThat never shall break on the beach;And I have heard songs in the silenceThat never shall float into speech;And I have had dreams in the valleyToo lofty for language to reach.And I have seen thoughts in the valley—Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred!And they wear holy veils on their faces—Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;They pass through the valley like virginsToo pure for the touch of a word.Do you ask me the place of the Valley,Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?It lieth afar, between mountains,And God and his angels are there;And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow,The other, the bright Mount of Prayer.—Abram Joseph Ryan.
I walk down the Valley of Silence,Down the dim, voiceless valley alone!And I hear not the fall of a footstepAround me—save God's and my own!And the hush of my heart is as holyAs hovers where angels have flown.
I walk down the Valley of Silence,
Down the dim, voiceless valley alone!
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me—save God's and my own!
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown.
Long ago was I weary of voicesWhose music my heart could not win;Long ago was I weary of noisesThat fretted my soul with their din;Long ago was I weary of placesWhere I met but the human and sin.
Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose music my heart could not win;
Long ago was I weary of noises
That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places
Where I met but the human and sin.
And still did I pine for the perfect,And still found the false with the true;I sought 'mid the human for heaven,But caught a mere glimpse of the blue;And I wept when the clouds of the world veiledEventhatglimpse from my view.
And still did I pine for the perfect,
And still found the false with the true;
I sought 'mid the human for heaven,
But caught a mere glimpse of the blue;
And I wept when the clouds of the world veiled
Eventhatglimpse from my view.
And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human,And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men,Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar,And heard a Voice call me. Since thenI walk down the Valley of SilenceThat lies far beyond mortal ken.
And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human,
And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men,
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar,
And heard a Voice call me. Since then
I walk down the Valley of Silence
That lies far beyond mortal ken.
Do you ask what I found in the Valley?'Tis my trysting place with the Divine.When I fell at the feet of the Holy,And about me a voice said, "Be mine,"There arose from the depths of my spiritAn echo: "My heart shall be thine."
Do you ask what I found in the Valley?
'Tis my trysting place with the Divine.
When I fell at the feet of the Holy,
And about me a voice said, "Be mine,"
There arose from the depths of my spirit
An echo: "My heart shall be thine."
Do you ask how I live in the Valley?I weep, and I dream, and I pray;But my tears are as sweet as the dew-dropsThat fall on the roses in May;And my prayer, like a perfume from censer,Ascendeth to God night and day.
Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep, and I dream, and I pray;
But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayer, like a perfume from censer,
Ascendeth to God night and day.
In the hush of the Valley of Silence,I dream all the songs that I sing;And the music floats down the dim valleyTill each finds a word for a wing,That to men, like the doves of the delugeThe message of peace they may bring.
In the hush of the Valley of Silence,
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim valley
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to men, like the doves of the deluge
The message of peace they may bring.
But far out on the deep there are billowsThat never shall break on the beach;And I have heard songs in the silenceThat never shall float into speech;And I have had dreams in the valleyToo lofty for language to reach.
But far out on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the silence
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the valley
Too lofty for language to reach.
And I have seen thoughts in the valley—Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred!And they wear holy veils on their faces—Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;They pass through the valley like virginsToo pure for the touch of a word.
And I have seen thoughts in the valley—
Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces—
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the valley like virgins
Too pure for the touch of a word.
Do you ask me the place of the Valley,Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?It lieth afar, between mountains,And God and his angels are there;And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow,The other, the bright Mount of Prayer.
Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?
It lieth afar, between mountains,
And God and his angels are there;
And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow,
The other, the bright Mount of Prayer.
—Abram Joseph Ryan.
—Abram Joseph Ryan.
———
Because I seek thee not O seek thou me!Because my lips are dumb O hear the cryI do not utter as thou passest by,And from my lifelong bondage set me free!Because, content, I perish far from thee,O seize me, snatch me from my fate and tryMy soul in thy consuming fire! Draw nighAnd let me, blinded, thy salvation see.If I were pouring at thy feet my tears,If I were clamoring to see thy face,I should not need thee, Lord, as now I need,Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears,Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place.BecauseI seek not, pray not, give thou heed.
Because I seek thee not O seek thou me!Because my lips are dumb O hear the cryI do not utter as thou passest by,And from my lifelong bondage set me free!Because, content, I perish far from thee,O seize me, snatch me from my fate and tryMy soul in thy consuming fire! Draw nighAnd let me, blinded, thy salvation see.
Because I seek thee not O seek thou me!
Because my lips are dumb O hear the cry
I do not utter as thou passest by,
And from my lifelong bondage set me free!
Because, content, I perish far from thee,
O seize me, snatch me from my fate and try
My soul in thy consuming fire! Draw nigh
And let me, blinded, thy salvation see.
If I were pouring at thy feet my tears,If I were clamoring to see thy face,I should not need thee, Lord, as now I need,Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears,Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place.BecauseI seek not, pray not, give thou heed.
If I were pouring at thy feet my tears,
If I were clamoring to see thy face,
I should not need thee, Lord, as now I need,
Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears,
Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place.
BecauseI seek not, pray not, give thou heed.
———
Two went to pray? O, rather sayOne went to brag, the other to pray;One stands up close and treads on high,Where the other dares not lend his eye;One nearer to God's altar trod,The other to the altar's God.—Richard Crashaw.
Two went to pray? O, rather sayOne went to brag, the other to pray;One stands up close and treads on high,Where the other dares not lend his eye;One nearer to God's altar trod,The other to the altar's God.
Two went to pray? O, rather say
One went to brag, the other to pray;
One stands up close and treads on high,
Where the other dares not lend his eye;
One nearer to God's altar trod,
The other to the altar's God.
—Richard Crashaw.
—Richard Crashaw.
———
A moment in the morning, ere the cares of the day begin,Ere the heart's wide door is open for the world to enter in,Ah, then, alone with Jesus, in the silence of the morn,In heavenly sweet communion, let your duty-day be born.In the quietude that blesses with a prelude of reposeLet your soul be smoothed and softened, as the dew revives the rose.A moment in the morning take your Bible in your hand,And catch a glimpse of glory from the peaceful promised land:It will linger still before you when you seek the busy mart,And like flowers of hope will blossom into beauty in your heart.The precious words, like jewels, will glisten all the dayWith a rare effulgent glory that will brighten all the way;When comes a sore temptation, and your feet are near a snare,You may count them like a rosary and make each one a prayer.A moment in the morning—a moment, if no more—Is better than an hour when the trying day is o'er.'Tis the gentle dew from heaven, the manna for the day;If you fail to gather early—alas! it melts away.So, in the blush of morning, take the offered hand of love,And walk in heaven's pathway and the peacefulness thereof.—Arthur Lewis Tubbs.
A moment in the morning, ere the cares of the day begin,Ere the heart's wide door is open for the world to enter in,Ah, then, alone with Jesus, in the silence of the morn,In heavenly sweet communion, let your duty-day be born.In the quietude that blesses with a prelude of reposeLet your soul be smoothed and softened, as the dew revives the rose.
A moment in the morning, ere the cares of the day begin,
Ere the heart's wide door is open for the world to enter in,
Ah, then, alone with Jesus, in the silence of the morn,
In heavenly sweet communion, let your duty-day be born.
In the quietude that blesses with a prelude of repose
Let your soul be smoothed and softened, as the dew revives the rose.
A moment in the morning take your Bible in your hand,And catch a glimpse of glory from the peaceful promised land:It will linger still before you when you seek the busy mart,And like flowers of hope will blossom into beauty in your heart.The precious words, like jewels, will glisten all the dayWith a rare effulgent glory that will brighten all the way;When comes a sore temptation, and your feet are near a snare,You may count them like a rosary and make each one a prayer.
A moment in the morning take your Bible in your hand,
And catch a glimpse of glory from the peaceful promised land:
It will linger still before you when you seek the busy mart,
And like flowers of hope will blossom into beauty in your heart.
The precious words, like jewels, will glisten all the day
With a rare effulgent glory that will brighten all the way;
When comes a sore temptation, and your feet are near a snare,
You may count them like a rosary and make each one a prayer.
A moment in the morning—a moment, if no more—Is better than an hour when the trying day is o'er.'Tis the gentle dew from heaven, the manna for the day;If you fail to gather early—alas! it melts away.So, in the blush of morning, take the offered hand of love,And walk in heaven's pathway and the peacefulness thereof.
A moment in the morning—a moment, if no more—
Is better than an hour when the trying day is o'er.
'Tis the gentle dew from heaven, the manna for the day;
If you fail to gather early—alas! it melts away.
So, in the blush of morning, take the offered hand of love,
And walk in heaven's pathway and the peacefulness thereof.
—Arthur Lewis Tubbs.
—Arthur Lewis Tubbs.
———
Come to the morning prayer,Come, let us kneel and pray;Prayer is the Christian pilgrim's staffTo walk with God all day.At noon, beneath the RockOf Ages rest and pray;Sweet is the shadow from the heatWhen the sun smites by day.At eve, shut to the door,Round the home altar pray;And finding there "the house of God"At "heaven's gate" close the day.When midnight seals our eyes,Let each in spirit say,"I sleep, but my heart waketh, Lord,With thee to watch and pray."—James Montgomery.
Come to the morning prayer,Come, let us kneel and pray;Prayer is the Christian pilgrim's staffTo walk with God all day.
Come to the morning prayer,
Come, let us kneel and pray;
Prayer is the Christian pilgrim's staff
To walk with God all day.
At noon, beneath the RockOf Ages rest and pray;Sweet is the shadow from the heatWhen the sun smites by day.
At noon, beneath the Rock
Of Ages rest and pray;
Sweet is the shadow from the heat
When the sun smites by day.
At eve, shut to the door,Round the home altar pray;And finding there "the house of God"At "heaven's gate" close the day.
At eve, shut to the door,
Round the home altar pray;
And finding there "the house of God"
At "heaven's gate" close the day.
When midnight seals our eyes,Let each in spirit say,"I sleep, but my heart waketh, Lord,With thee to watch and pray."
When midnight seals our eyes,
Let each in spirit say,
"I sleep, but my heart waketh, Lord,
With thee to watch and pray."
—James Montgomery.
—James Montgomery.
———
How we, poor players on life's little stage,Thrust blindly at each other in our rage,Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to prayTo God to keep us on our selfish way.We think to move him with our prayer and praiseTo serve our needs, as in the old Greek daysTheir gods came down and mingled in the fightWith mightier arms the flying foe to smite.The laughter of those gods pealed down to man;For heaven was but earth's upper story then,Where goddesses about an apple stroveAnd the high gods fell humanly in love.Weown a God whose presence fills the sky;Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by;Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one,The sons of man, and calls them each his son.—Louise Chandler Moulton.
How we, poor players on life's little stage,Thrust blindly at each other in our rage,Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to prayTo God to keep us on our selfish way.
How we, poor players on life's little stage,
Thrust blindly at each other in our rage,
Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to pray
To God to keep us on our selfish way.
We think to move him with our prayer and praiseTo serve our needs, as in the old Greek daysTheir gods came down and mingled in the fightWith mightier arms the flying foe to smite.
We think to move him with our prayer and praise
To serve our needs, as in the old Greek days
Their gods came down and mingled in the fight
With mightier arms the flying foe to smite.
The laughter of those gods pealed down to man;For heaven was but earth's upper story then,Where goddesses about an apple stroveAnd the high gods fell humanly in love.
The laughter of those gods pealed down to man;
For heaven was but earth's upper story then,
Where goddesses about an apple strove
And the high gods fell humanly in love.
Weown a God whose presence fills the sky;Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by;Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one,The sons of man, and calls them each his son.
Weown a God whose presence fills the sky;
Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by;
Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one,
The sons of man, and calls them each his son.
—Louise Chandler Moulton.
—Louise Chandler Moulton.
———
To make rough places plain, and crooked straight;To help the weak; to envy not the strong;To make the earth a sweeter dwelling place,In little ways, or if we may, in great,And in the world to help the heavenly song,We pray, Lord Jesus, grant to us thy grace!
To make rough places plain, and crooked straight;To help the weak; to envy not the strong;To make the earth a sweeter dwelling place,In little ways, or if we may, in great,And in the world to help the heavenly song,We pray, Lord Jesus, grant to us thy grace!
To make rough places plain, and crooked straight;
To help the weak; to envy not the strong;
To make the earth a sweeter dwelling place,
In little ways, or if we may, in great,
And in the world to help the heavenly song,
We pray, Lord Jesus, grant to us thy grace!
———
A woman sat by a hearthside placeReading a book, with a pleasant face,Till a child came up, with a childish frown,And pushed the book, saying, "Put it down."Then the mother, slapping his curly head,Said, "Troublesome child, go off to bed;A great deal of Christ's life I must knowTo train you up as a child should go."And the child went off to bed to cry,And denounce religion—by and by.Another woman bent over a bookWith a smile of joy and an intent look,Till a child came up and jogged her knee,And said of the book, "Put it down—take me."Then the mother sighed as she stroked his head,Saying softly, "I never shall get it read:But I'll try by loving to learn His will,And his love into my child instill."That child went to bed without a sigh,And will love religion—by and by.
A woman sat by a hearthside placeReading a book, with a pleasant face,Till a child came up, with a childish frown,And pushed the book, saying, "Put it down."Then the mother, slapping his curly head,Said, "Troublesome child, go off to bed;A great deal of Christ's life I must knowTo train you up as a child should go."And the child went off to bed to cry,And denounce religion—by and by.
A woman sat by a hearthside place
Reading a book, with a pleasant face,
Till a child came up, with a childish frown,
And pushed the book, saying, "Put it down."
Then the mother, slapping his curly head,
Said, "Troublesome child, go off to bed;
A great deal of Christ's life I must know
To train you up as a child should go."
And the child went off to bed to cry,
And denounce religion—by and by.
Another woman bent over a bookWith a smile of joy and an intent look,Till a child came up and jogged her knee,And said of the book, "Put it down—take me."Then the mother sighed as she stroked his head,Saying softly, "I never shall get it read:But I'll try by loving to learn His will,And his love into my child instill."That child went to bed without a sigh,And will love religion—by and by.
Another woman bent over a book
With a smile of joy and an intent look,
Till a child came up and jogged her knee,
And said of the book, "Put it down—take me."
Then the mother sighed as she stroked his head,
Saying softly, "I never shall get it read:
But I'll try by loving to learn His will,
And his love into my child instill."
That child went to bed without a sigh,
And will love religion—by and by.
———
I have a life with Christ to live;But ere I live it must I waitTill learning can clear answer giveOf this or that book's date?I have a life in Christ to live,I have a death in Christ to die;And must I wait till science giveAll doubts a full reply?Nay, rather, while the sea of doubtIs raging wildly round about,Questioning of life and death and sin,Let me but creep withinThy fold, O Christ, and at thy feetTake but the lowest seat,And hear thine awful voice repeatIn gentlest accents, heavenly sweet,"Come unto me and rest;Believe me, and be blest."—John Campbell Shairp.
I have a life with Christ to live;But ere I live it must I waitTill learning can clear answer giveOf this or that book's date?
I have a life with Christ to live;
But ere I live it must I wait
Till learning can clear answer give
Of this or that book's date?
I have a life in Christ to live,I have a death in Christ to die;And must I wait till science giveAll doubts a full reply?
I have a life in Christ to live,
I have a death in Christ to die;
And must I wait till science give
All doubts a full reply?
Nay, rather, while the sea of doubtIs raging wildly round about,Questioning of life and death and sin,Let me but creep withinThy fold, O Christ, and at thy feetTake but the lowest seat,And hear thine awful voice repeatIn gentlest accents, heavenly sweet,"Come unto me and rest;Believe me, and be blest."
Nay, rather, while the sea of doubt
Is raging wildly round about,
Questioning of life and death and sin,
Let me but creep within
Thy fold, O Christ, and at thy feet
Take but the lowest seat,
And hear thine awful voice repeat
In gentlest accents, heavenly sweet,
"Come unto me and rest;
Believe me, and be blest."
—John Campbell Shairp.
—John Campbell Shairp.
———
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.—Dr. Samuel Johnson.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.
—Dr. Samuel Johnson.
—Dr. Samuel Johnson.
———
Go when the morning shineth,Go when the noon is bright,Go when the eve declineth,Go in the hush of night;Go with pure mind and feeling,Fling earthly thoughts away,And, in thy chamber kneeling,Do thou in secret pray.Remember all who love thee,All who are loved by thee;Pray, too, for those who hate thee,If any such there be.Then for thyself in meeknessA blessing humbly claim,And link with thy petitionThe great Redeemer's name.Or, if 'tis e'er denied theeIn solitude to pray,Should holy thoughts come o'er theeWhen friends are round thy way,E'en then the silent breathingOf thy spirit, raised above,May reach His throne of gloryWho is mercy, truth and love.Oh! not a joy or blessingWith this can we compare:The power that he hath given usTo pour our hearts in prayer.Whene'er thou pin'st in sadnessBefore His footstool fall,And remember in thy gladnessHis grace who gave thee all.—Jane C. Simpson.
Go when the morning shineth,Go when the noon is bright,Go when the eve declineth,Go in the hush of night;Go with pure mind and feeling,Fling earthly thoughts away,And, in thy chamber kneeling,Do thou in secret pray.
Go when the morning shineth,
Go when the noon is bright,
Go when the eve declineth,
Go in the hush of night;
Go with pure mind and feeling,
Fling earthly thoughts away,
And, in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in secret pray.
Remember all who love thee,All who are loved by thee;Pray, too, for those who hate thee,If any such there be.Then for thyself in meeknessA blessing humbly claim,And link with thy petitionThe great Redeemer's name.
Remember all who love thee,
All who are loved by thee;
Pray, too, for those who hate thee,
If any such there be.
Then for thyself in meekness
A blessing humbly claim,
And link with thy petition
The great Redeemer's name.
Or, if 'tis e'er denied theeIn solitude to pray,Should holy thoughts come o'er theeWhen friends are round thy way,E'en then the silent breathingOf thy spirit, raised above,May reach His throne of gloryWho is mercy, truth and love.
Or, if 'tis e'er denied thee
In solitude to pray,
Should holy thoughts come o'er thee
When friends are round thy way,
E'en then the silent breathing
Of thy spirit, raised above,
May reach His throne of glory
Who is mercy, truth and love.
Oh! not a joy or blessingWith this can we compare:The power that he hath given usTo pour our hearts in prayer.Whene'er thou pin'st in sadnessBefore His footstool fall,And remember in thy gladnessHis grace who gave thee all.
Oh! not a joy or blessing
With this can we compare:
The power that he hath given us
To pour our hearts in prayer.
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness
Before His footstool fall,
And remember in thy gladness
His grace who gave thee all.
—Jane C. Simpson.
—Jane C. Simpson.
———
More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goats,That nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,Both for themselves and those who call them friend.For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.—Alfred Tennyson.
More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goats,That nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,Both for themselves and those who call them friend.For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.
More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats,
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,
Both for themselves and those who call them friend.
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
—Alfred Tennyson.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
He walked with God, by faith, in solitude,At early dawn or tranquil eventide;In some lone leafy place he would abideTill his whole being was with God imbued.He walked with God amid the multitude;No threats or smiles could his firm soul divideFrom that beloved presence at his sideWhose still small voice silenced earth's noises rude.Boldly abroad to men he testifiedHow "the Lord cometh" and the judgment brings;Gently at home he trained his "sons and daughters";Till, praying, a bright chariot he espiedSent to translate him, as on angels' wings,To walk with God beside heaven's "living waters."—R. Wilton.
He walked with God, by faith, in solitude,At early dawn or tranquil eventide;In some lone leafy place he would abideTill his whole being was with God imbued.He walked with God amid the multitude;No threats or smiles could his firm soul divideFrom that beloved presence at his sideWhose still small voice silenced earth's noises rude.Boldly abroad to men he testifiedHow "the Lord cometh" and the judgment brings;Gently at home he trained his "sons and daughters";Till, praying, a bright chariot he espiedSent to translate him, as on angels' wings,To walk with God beside heaven's "living waters."
He walked with God, by faith, in solitude,
At early dawn or tranquil eventide;
In some lone leafy place he would abide
Till his whole being was with God imbued.
He walked with God amid the multitude;
No threats or smiles could his firm soul divide
From that beloved presence at his side
Whose still small voice silenced earth's noises rude.
Boldly abroad to men he testified
How "the Lord cometh" and the judgment brings;
Gently at home he trained his "sons and daughters";
Till, praying, a bright chariot he espied
Sent to translate him, as on angels' wings,
To walk with God beside heaven's "living waters."
—R. Wilton.
—R. Wilton.
———
Lord, speak to me, that I may speakIn living echoes of thy tone;As thou hast sought, so let me seekThy erring children, lost and lone.Oh, teach me, Lord, that I may teachThe precious things thou dost impart;And wing my words that they may reachThe hidden depths of many a heart.Oh, give thine own sweet rest to me,That I may speak with soothing powerA word in season, as from thee,To weary ones in needful hour.Oh, use me, Lord, use even me,Just as thou wilt, and when and where;Until thy blessed face I see,Thy rest, thy joy, thy glory share.
Lord, speak to me, that I may speakIn living echoes of thy tone;As thou hast sought, so let me seekThy erring children, lost and lone.
Lord, speak to me, that I may speak
In living echoes of thy tone;
As thou hast sought, so let me seek
Thy erring children, lost and lone.
Oh, teach me, Lord, that I may teachThe precious things thou dost impart;And wing my words that they may reachThe hidden depths of many a heart.
Oh, teach me, Lord, that I may teach
The precious things thou dost impart;
And wing my words that they may reach
The hidden depths of many a heart.
Oh, give thine own sweet rest to me,That I may speak with soothing powerA word in season, as from thee,To weary ones in needful hour.
Oh, give thine own sweet rest to me,
That I may speak with soothing power
A word in season, as from thee,
To weary ones in needful hour.
Oh, use me, Lord, use even me,Just as thou wilt, and when and where;Until thy blessed face I see,Thy rest, thy joy, thy glory share.
Oh, use me, Lord, use even me,
Just as thou wilt, and when and where;
Until thy blessed face I see,
Thy rest, thy joy, thy glory share.
———