TREASURE.
Treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but righteousness delivereth from death.—Proverbs, x. 2.
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:
But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven:
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.—Matthew, vi. 19, 20, 21.
He is a path, if any be misled;
He is a robe, if any naked be;
If any chance to hunger, He is bread;
If any be a bondman, He is free;
If any be but weak, how strong is He!
To dead men life He is, to sick men health;
To blind men sight, and to the needy, wealth—
A pleasure without loss, a treasure without stealth.
Giles Fletcher.
Not to understand a treasure’s worth
Till time has stolen away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.
Cowper.
Engage this roving treacherous heart,
Great God! to choose the better part;
To scorn the trifles of a day,
For joys that none can take away.
Then let the wildest storms arise,
Let tempests mingle earth and skies;
No fatal shipwreck shall I fear,
But all my treasure with me bear.
If Thou, my Jesus, still art nigh,
Cheerful I live, and cheerful die;
Secure, when mortal comforts flee,
To find ten thousand worlds in Thee.
Doddridge.
Think’st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling’s pomp, and miser’s gold,
Obtains a richer prize
Than he, who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasure in the skies.
Mrs. Sigourney.
What are they?—gold and silver,
Or what such ore can buy?
The price of silken luxury—
Rich robes of Tyrian dye?
Guests that come thronging in
With lordly pomp and state?
Or thankless liveried serving men,
To stand about the gate?
Or are they daintiest meats,
Sent up on silver fine?
Or golden cups o’er brimm’d
With rich Falernian wine?
Or parchments, setting forth
Broad lands our fathers held?
Parks for our deer, ponds for our fish,
And woods that may be fell’d?
No, no! they are not these! or else
God help the poor man’s need!
Then, sitting ’mid his little ones,
He would be poor indeed!
They are not these—our household wealth
Belongs not to degree:
It is the love within our souls—
The children at our knee!
My heart o’erfloweth to mine eyes
When I see the poor man stand,
After his daily work is done,
With children by the hand:—
And this he kisseth tenderly,
And that sweet names doth call;
For I know he has no treasure
Like those dear children small!
Oh, children young, I bless ye!
Ye keep such love alive!
And the home can ne’er be desolate
Where love has room to thrive!
Oh, precious household treasures,
Life’s sweetest, holiest claim—
The Saviour bless’d ye while on earth—
I bless ye in His name!
Mary Howitt.