WORKS—WORK.
Unto thee, O Lord, belongeth mercy; for thou renderest to every man according to his work.—Psalm lxii. 12.
The works of the Lord are great, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein.—Psalm cxi. 2.
Prepare thy work without, and make it fit for thyself in the field: and afterwards build thine house.—Proverbs, xxiv. 27.
These are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good,
Almighty, Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt’st above the Heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold Him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing! ye in Heaven,
On Earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Milton.
If faith produce no works; I see
That faith is not a living tree.
Thus faith and works together grow,
No separate life they e’er can know:
They’re soul and body, hand and heart,—
What God hath joined, let no man part.
Hannah More.
O, how unlike the complex works of man,
Heaven’s easy, artless, unencumbered plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile;
From ostentation, as from weakness free,
It stands, like the cerulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.
Inscribed above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star,
Legible only by the light they give,
Stand the soul-quickening words: Believe and live!
Cowper.
Oh how I love with melted soul to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! what though the opening air be chill!
Although the lark, checked in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod
That still o’ertops the blade; although no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream.
What though the clouds oft lower; their threats but end
In summer showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violets, or interrupt
The merle’s dulcet pipe—melodious bird!
He hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
Sweet is the sunny nook to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where—so lovely all around,
The works of God arrayed in vernal smile.
Grahame.
How manifold Thy works, O Lord,
In wisdom, power, and goodness wrought!
The earth is with Thy riches stored,
And ocean with Thy wonders fraught:
Unfathom’d caves beneath the deep
For Thee their hidden treasures keep.
J. Montgomery.
Wherever in the world I am,
In whatsoe’er estate,
I have a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate;
And a work of lowly love to do
For the Lord on whom I wait.
A. L. Waring.
Fellow-workers are we; hour by hour,
Human tools are shaping Heaven’s great schemes,
Till we see no limit to man’s power,
And reality outstrips old dreams.
Toil and struggle, therefore, work and weep,
In God’s care ye shall calmly sleep,
When the night cometh.
Mrs. Embury.
Lord of all Being! where can fancy fly,
To what far realms, unmeasured by thine eye?
Where can he hide beneath Thy blazing sun,
Where dwell’st Thou not, the boundless, viewless One?
Shall guilt couch down within the cavern’s gloom,
And quivering, groaning, meditate her doom?
Or scale the mountains, where the whirlwinds rest,
And in the night-blast cool her fiery breast?
Within the cavern-gloom Thine eye can see,
The sky-clad mountains lift their heads to Thee!
Thy spirit rides upon the thunder storms,
Darkening the sky with their terrific forms!
Beams in the lightning, rocks upon the seas,
Roars in the blast, and whispers in the breeze;
In calms, in storm, in Heaven, in earth, Thou art!
Trace but Thy works, they bring Thee to the heart.
R. Montgomery.
The blackbird early leaves its rest
To meet the smiling morn,
And gather fragments for its nest
From upland, wood, and lawn.
The busy bee that wings its way
’Mid sweets of varied hue,
At every flower would seem to say—
“There’s work enough to do.”
The cowslip and the spreading vine,
The daisy in the grass,
The snowdrop and the eglantine,
Preach sermons as we pass.
The ant within its cavern deep,
Would bid us labour too,
And writes upon its tiny heap,
“There’s work enough to do.”
The planets, at their Maker’s will,
Move onward in their cars,
For Nature’s wheel is never still—
Progressive as the stars!
The leaves that flutter in the air,
And summer breezes woo,
One solemn truth to man declare—
“There’s work enough to do.”
J. Burbidge.