We deem thy mortal memory but begun; Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast Too high, or deep, for human fathomings? Perhaps, while reason's earliest fount is heightening, Emblem of heavenly purity and bliss! Mysterious type, which none can understand! HOPEFULLY WAIT, AND PATIENTLY ENDURE. Margaret L. Bailey. EVERY day hath toil and trouble, Every heart hath care: Meekly bear thine own full measure, Fear not, shrink not, though the burden Heavy to thee prove! God shall fill thy mouth with gladness, Patiently enduring, ever Bound by links, that cannot sever, Labour-wait! the Master perished Ere his task was done; Count not lost thy fleeting moments, Labour and the seed thou sowest Water with thy tears; God is faithful—he will give thee Wait in hope! though yet no verdure Glad thy longing eyes, Garnered in the skies. Labour-wait! though midnight shadows Gather round thee here, Fill thy heart with fear Wait in hope the morning dawneth When the night is gone, And a peaceful rest awaits thee When thy work is done. AN ANCIENT SACRAMENTAL HYMN. Thomas Aquinas. O BREAD to pilgrims given, O food that angels eat, O manna sent from heaven For heaven-born natures meet! O water, life-bestowing, A fount of love thou art! Oh let us, freely tasting, Our burning thirst assuage, Jesus, this feast receiving, We thee unseen adore, We take,-and doubt no more! Thy glorious face to see. "COME, LORD! WHEN GRACE HAS MADE ME MEET." Barter. LORD, it belongs not to my care, To live and serve thee is my share, If short, yet why should I be sad, Christ leads me through no darker rooms Must enter by this door. Come, Lord! when grace has made me meet Thy blessed face to see; For if thy work on earth be sweet, What must thy glory be? Then shall I end my sad complaints, And weary, sinful days, And join with the triumphant saints, My knowledge of that life is small, But 'tis enough that Christ knows all, And I shall be with him. THE DAY OF REST. George Berbert. O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, The endorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Man had straight forward gone The which he doth not fill. Sundays the pillars are, On which heaven's palace arched lies And hollow room with vanities. : |