Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

by Unknown

GOD'S WILL

Take thine own way with me, dear Lord,

Thou canst not otherwise than bless.

I launch me forth upon a sea

Of boundless love and tenderness.

I could not choose a larger bliss

Than to be wholly thine; and mine

A will whose highest joy is this,

To ceaselessly unclasp in thine.

I will not fear thee, O my God!

The days to come can only bring

Their perfect sequences of love,

Thy larger, deeper comforting.

Within the shadow of this love,

Loss doth transmute itself to gain;

Faith veils earth's sorrow in its light,

And straightway lives above her pain.

We are not losers thus; we share

The perfect gladness of the Son,

Not conquered—for, behold, we reign;

Conquered and Conqueror are one.

Thy wonderful, grand will, my God,

Triumphantly I make it mine;

And faith shall breathe her glad "Amen"

To every dear command of thine.

Beneath the splendor of thy choice,

Thy perfect choice for me, I rest;

Outside it now I dare not live,

Within it I must needs be blest.

Meanwhile my spirit anchors calm

In grander regions still than this;

The fair, far-shining latitudes

Of that yet unexplorèd bliss.

Then may thy perfect glorious will

Be evermore fulfilled in me,

And make my life an answering chord

Of glad, responsive harmony.

Oh! it is life indeed to live

Within this kingdom strangely sweet;

And yet we fear to enter in,

And linger with unwilling feet.

We fear this wondrous will of thine

Because we have not reached thy heart.

Not venturing our all on thee

We may not know how good thou art.

—Jean Sophia Pigott.

———

Deep at the heart of all our pain,

In loss as surely as in gain,

His love abideth still.

Let come what will my heart shall stand

On this firm rock at his right hand,

"Father, it is thy will."

—John White Chadwick.

———

THE CARPENTER

O Lord! at Joseph's humble bench

Thy hands did handle saw and plane,

Thy hammer nails did drive and clench,

Avoiding knot, and humoring grain.

That thou didst seem thou wast indeed,

In sport thy tools thou didst not use,

Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need,

The laborer's hire too nice refuse.

Lord! might I be but as a saw,

A plane, a chisel in thy hand!

No, Lord! I take it back in awe,

Such prayer for me is far too grand.

I pray, O Master! let me lie,

As on thy bench the favored wood;

Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply,

And work me into something good.

No! no! Ambition holy, high,

Urges for more than both to pray;

Come in, O gracious force, I cry,

O Workman! share my shed of clay.

Then I at bench, or desk, or oar,

With last, or needle, net, or pen,

As thou in Nazareth of yore,

Shall do the Father's will again.

—George Macdonald.

———

THE DIVINE MAJESTY

The Lord our God is clothed with might,

The winds obey his will;

He speaks, and in his heavenly height

The rolling sun stands still.

Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land

With threatening aspect roar;

The Lord uplifts his awful hand,

And chains you to the shore.

Ye winds of night, your force combine;

Without his high behest,

Ye shall not, in the mountain pine,

Disturb the sparrow's nest.

His voice sublime is heard afar;

In distant peals it dies;

He yokes the whirlwind to his car

And sweeps the howling skies.

Ye sons of earth, in reverence bend;

Ye nations, wait his nod;

And bid the choral song ascend

To celebrate our God.

—H. Kirke White.

———

THOU SWEET, BELOVED WILL OF GOD

Thou sweet, beloved will of God,

My anchor ground, my fortress hill,

My spirit's silent, fair abode,

In thee I hide me and am still.

O Will, that willest good alone,

Lead thou the way, thou guidest best;

A little child, I follow on,

And, trusting, lean upon thy breast.

Thy beautiful sweet will, my God,

Holds fast in its sublime embrace

My captive will, a gladsome bird,

Prisoned in such a realm of grace.

Within this place of certain good

Love evermore expands her wings,

Or, nestling in thy perfect choice,

Abides content with what it brings.

Oh lightest burden, sweetest yoke!

It lifts, it bears my happy soul,

It giveth wings to this poor heart;

My freedom is thy grand control.

Upon God's will I lay me down,

As child upon its mother's breast;

No silken couch, nor softest bed,

Could ever give me such deep rest.

Thy wonderful grand will, my God,

With triumph now I make it mine;

And faith shall cry a joyous Yes!

To every dear command of thine.

———

AS IT WAS TO BE

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare!

The spray of the tempest is white in air;

The winds are out with the waves at play,

And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.

The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,

The panther clings to the arching limb;

And the lion's whelps are abroad at play,

And I shall not join in the chase to-day.

But the ship sailed safely over the sea,

And the hunters came from the chase in glee;

And the town that was builded upon a rock

Was swallowed up in the earthquake's shock.

—Francis Bret Harte.

———

USEFUL ACCORDING TO GOD'S WILL

Let me not die before I've done for thee

My earthly work, whatever it may be;

Call me not hence with mission unfulfilled;

Let me not leave my space of ground untilled;

Impress this truth upon me, that not one

Can do my portion that I leave undone.

Then give me strength all faithfully to toil,

Converting barren earth to fruitful soil.

I long to be an instrument of thine

For gathering worshipers into thy shrine:

To be the means one human soul to save

From the dark terrors of a hopeless grave.

Yet most I want a spirit of content

To work where'er thou'lt wish my labor spent,

Whether at home or in a stranger's clime,

In days of joy or sorrow's sterner time;

I want a spirit passive to be still,

And by thy power to do thy holy will.

And when the prayer unto my lips doth rise,

"Before a new home doth my soul surprise,

Let me accomplish some great work for thee,"

Subdue it, Lord; let my petition be,

"O make me useful in this world of thine,

In ways according to thy will, not mine."

———

AS THOU WILT

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

O may thy will be mine;

Into thy hand of love

I would my all resign.

Through sorrow or through joy

Conduct me as thine own,

And help me still to say,

"My Lord, thy will be done."

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

If needy here, and poor,

Give me thy people's bread,

Their portion rich and sure.

The manna of thy word

Let my soul feed upon;

And if all else should fail—

My Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

If among thorns I go,

Still sometimes here and there

Let a few roses blow.

But thou on earth along

The thorny path hast gone;

Then lead me after thee.

My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

Though seen through many a tear,

Let not my star of hope

Grow dim or disappear.

Since thou on earth hast wept

And sorrowed oft alone,

If I must weep with thee,

My Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

If loved ones must depart

Suffer not sorrow's flood

To overwhelm my heart.

For they are blest with thee,

Their race and conflict won;

Let me but follow them.

My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

When death itself draws nigh,

To thy dear wounded side

I would for refuge fly.

Leaning on thee, to go

Where thou before hast gone;

The rest as thou shalt please.

My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt:

All shall be well for me;

Each changing future scene

I gladly trust with thee.

Straight to my home above,

I travel calmly on,

And sing in life or death,

"My Lord, thy will be done."

—Benjamin Schmolke, tr. by J. Borthwick.

———

GREAT AND SMALL

There is no great nor small in Nature's plan,

Bulk is but fancy in the mind of man;

A raindrop is as wondrous as a star,

Near is not nearest, farthest is not far;

And suns and planets in the vast serene

Are lost as midges in the summer sheen,

Born in their season; and we live and die

Creatures of Time, lost in Eternity.

—Charles Mackay.

———

GOD'S WILL BE DONE

My God, my Father, while I stray

Far from my home, on life's rough way,

O teach me from my heart to say,

"Thy will be done!"

Though dark my path, and sad my lot,

Let me "be still," and murmur not;

O breathe the prayer divinely taught,

"Thy will be done!"

What though in lonely grief I sigh

For friends beloved, no longer nigh,

Submissive still would I reply

"Thy will be done!"

Though thou hast called me to resign

What most I prized, it ne'er was mine;

I have but yielded what was thine;

"Thy will be done!"

Should grief or sickness waste away

My life in premature decay;

My Father! still I strive to say,

"Thy will be done!"

Let but my fainting heart be blest

With thy sweet Spirit for its guest;

My God! to thee I leave the rest:

"Thy will be done!"

Renew my will from day to day!

Blend it with thine; and take away

All that now makes it hard to say,

"Thy will be done!"

Then, when on earth I breathe no more

The prayer oft mixed with tears before,

I'll sing upon a happier shore:

"Thy will be done!"

—Charlotte Elliott.

———

THE TWO ANGELS

All is of God! If he but wave his hand,

The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,

Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,

Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his;

Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er;

Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,

Against his messengers to shut the door?

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

AMEN!

I cannot say,

Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day,

I joy in these;

But I can say

That I had rather walk this rugged way,

If Him it please.

I cannot feel

That all is well when darkening clouds conceal

The shining sun;

But then I know

God lives and loves, and say, since it is so,

Thy will be done.

I cannot speak

In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek

Show I am sad:

But I can speak

Of grace to suffer with submission meek

Until made glad.

I do not see

Why God should e'en permit some things to be,

When He is love;

But I can see,

Though often dimly, through the mystery

His hand above!

I do not know

Where falls the seed that I have tried to sow

With greatest care;

But I shall know

The meaning of each waiting hour below

Sometime, somewhere!

I do not look

Upon the present, nor in Nature's book,

To read my fate;

But I do look

For promised blessings in God's holy Book;

And I can wait.

I may not try

To keep the hot tears back—but hush that sigh,

"It might have been";

And try to still

Each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will

Respond "Amen!"

—Miss Ophelia G. Browning.

———

AS HE WILLS

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,

Alike they're needful for the flower;

And joys and tears alike are sent

To give the soul fit nourishment.

As comes to me or cloud or sun,

Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

Can loving children e'er reprove,

With murmurs, whom they trust and love?

Creator! I would ever be

A trusting, loving child to thee:

As comes to me or cloud or sun,

Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

O ne'er will I at life repine—

Enough that thou hast made it mine;

When falls the shadow cold of death

I yet will sing with parting breath,

As comes to me or cloud or sun,

Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

—Sarah Flower Adams.

———

ACCORDING TO THY WILL

If I were told that I must die to-morrow,

That the next sun

Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow

For any one,

All the fight fought, all the short journey through,

What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter,

But just go on

Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter

Aught that is gone;

But rise, and move, and love, and smile, and pray

For one more day.

And lying down at night, for a last sleeping,

Say in that ear

Which harkens ever, "Lord, within thy keeping,

How should I fear?

And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still,

Do thou thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,

My soul would lie

All night long; and when the morning splendor

Flashed o'er the sky,

I think that I could smile—could calmly say,

"It is his day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder

Held out a scroll

On which my life was writ, and I with wonder

Beheld unroll

To a long century's end its mystic clew—

What should I do?

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master!

Other than this,

Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,

Nor fear to miss

The road, although so very long it be,

While led by thee?

Step by step, feeling thee close beside me,

Although unseen;

Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee

Or heavens serene,

Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray,

Thy love decay.

I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth

Thy counsels wise;

Along the path no deepening shadow stealeth;

No voice replies

To all my questioning thought the time to tell,

And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing

Thy will always;

Through a long century's ripe fruition

Or a short day's;

Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait

If thou come late!

—Susan Coolidge.

———

God's in his heaven,

All's right with the world.

—Robert Browning.

———

WHAT PLEASETH GOD

What pleaseth God with joy receive;

Though storm-winds rage and billows heave

And earth's foundations all be rent,

Be comforted; to thee is sent

What pleaseth God.

God's will is best; to this resigned,

How sweetly rests the weary mind!

Seek, then, this blessed conformity,

Desiring but to do and be

What pleaseth God.

God's thoughts are wisest; human schemes

Are vain delusions, idle dreams;

Our purposes are frail and weak;

With earthly mind we seldom seek

What pleaseth God.

God is the holiest; and his ways

Are full of kindness, truth, and grace;

His blessing crowns our earnest prayer,

While worldlings scorn, and little care

What pleaseth God.

God's is the truest heart; his love

Nor time, nor life, nor death, can move;

To those his mercies daily flow,

Whose chief concern it is to know

What pleaseth God.

Omnipotent he reigns on high

And watcheth o'er thy destiny;

While sea, and earth, and air produce

For daily pleasure, daily use,

What pleaseth God.

He loves his sheep, and when they stray

He leads them back to wisdom's way;

Their faithless, wandering hearts to turn,

Gently chastising, till they learn

What pleaseth God.

He knows our every need, and grants

A rich supply to all our wants;

No good withholds from those whose mind

Is bent with earnest zeal to find

What pleaseth God.

Then let the world, with stubborn will,

Its earthborn pleasures follow still;

Be this, my soul, thy constant aim,

Thy riches, honor, glory, fame,

What pleaseth God.

Should care and grief thy portion be,

To thy strong refuge ever flee;

For all his creatures but perform,

In peace and tumult, calm and storm,

What pleaseth God.

Faith lays her hand on God's rich grace,

And hope gives patience for the race;

These virtues in thy heart enshrined,

Thy portion thou wilt surely find,

What pleaseth God.

In heaven thy glorious portion is;

There is thy throne, thy crown, thy bliss;

There shalt thou taste, and hear, and see,

There shalt thou ever do and be,

What pleaseth God.

—Paul Gerhardt.

———

"THE SPLENDOR OF GOD'S WILL"

O words of golden music

Caught from the harps on high,

Which find a glorious anthem

Where we have found a sigh,

And peal their grandest praises

Just where ours faint and die.

O words of holy radiance

Shining on every tear

Till it becomes a rainbow,

Reflecting, bright and clear,

Our Father's love and glory

So wonderful, so dear!

O words of sparkling power,

Of insight full and deep!

Shall they not enter other hearts

In a grand and gladsome sweep,

And lift the lives to songs of joy

That only droop and weep?

And O, it is a splendor,

A glow of majesty,

A mystery of beauty,

If we will only see;

A very cloud of glory

Enfolding you and me.

A splendor that is lighted

At one transcendent flame,

The wondrous love, the perfect love,

Our Father's sweetest name;

For his very name and essence

And his will are all the same.

—Frances Ridley Havergal.

———

NOT BY CHANCE

No chance has brought this ill to me;

'Tis God's sweet will, so let it be;

He seeth what I cannot see.

There is a need-be for each pain,

And he will make it one day plain

That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like as a piece of tapestry,

Viewed from the back, appears to be

Naught but threads tangled hopelessly,

But in the front a picture fair

Rewards the worker for his care,

Proving his skill and patience rare.

Thou art the workman, I the frame;

Lord, for the glory of thy name,

Perfect thine image on the same!

———

SUBMISSION TO GOD

Whate'er God wills let that be done;

His will is ever wisest;

His grace will all thy hope outrun

Who to that faith arisest.

The gracious Lord

Will help afford;

He chastens with forbearing;

Who God believes,

And to him cleaves,

Shall not be left despairing.

My God is my sure confidence,

My light, and my existence;

His counsel is beyond my sense,

But stirs no weak resistance;

His word declares

The very hairs

Upon my head are numbered;

His mercy large

Holds me in charge

With care that never slumbered.

There comes a day when at his will

The pulse of nature ceases.

I think upon it, and am still,

Let come whate'er he pleases.

To him I trust

My soul, my dust,

When flesh and spirit sever;

The Christ we sing

Has plucked the sting

Away from death forever.

—Albert of Brandenburg, 1586.

———

THY WILL BE DONE

We see not, know not; all our way

Is night; with thee alone is day.

From out the torrent's troubled drift,

Above the storm our prayers we lift:

Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint.

But who are we to make complaint

Or dare to plead, in times like these,

The weakness of our love of ease?

Thy will be done!

We take, with solemn thankfulness,

Our burden up, nor ask it less,

And count it joy that even we

May suffer, serve, or wait for thee,

Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line,

We trace thy picture's wise design,

And thank thee that our age supplies

Its dark relief of sacrifice.

Thy will be done!

And if, in our unworthiness,

Thy sacrificial wine we press;

If from thy ordeal's heated bars

Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,

Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour

Of trial hath vicarious power,

And, blest by thee, our present pain

Be liberty's eternal gain,

Thy will be done.

Strike, thou the Master, we thy keys,

The anthem of the destinies!

The minor of thy loftier strain,

Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,

Thy will be done!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

There is no sense, as I can see,

In mortals such as you and me

A-faulting nature's wise intents

And locking horns with Providence.

———

It is no use to grumble and complain;

It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice;

When God sorts out the weather and sends rain—

Why, rain's my choice.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

THY WILL

Not in dumb resignation

We lift our hands on high;

Not like the nerveless fatalist,

Content to do and die.

Our faith springs like the eagle

Who soars to meet the sun,

And cries, exulting, unto thee,

"O Lord, thy will be done!"

Thy will! It bids the weak be strong;

It bids the strong be just;

No lip to fawn, no hand to beg,

No brow to seek the dust.

Wherever man oppresses man,

Beneath the liberal sun,

O Lord, be there! Thine arm make bare!

Thy righteous will be done!

—John Hay.

———

AS GOD WILL

All goeth but God's will!

The fairest garden flower

Fades after its brief hour

Of brightness. Still,

This is but God's good will.

All goeth but God's will!

The brightest, dearest day

Doth swiftly pass away,

And darkest night

Succeeds the vision bright.

But still strong-hearted be,

Yea, though the night be drear;

How sad and long soe'er

Its gloom may be,

This darkness, too, shall flee.

Weep not yon grave beside!

Dear friend, he is not gone;

God's angel soon this stone

Shall roll aside.

Yea, death shall not abide!

Earth's anguish, too, shall go,

O then be strong, my soul!

When sorrows o'er thee roll

Be still, and know

'Tis God's will worketh so.

Dear Lord and God, incline

Thine ear unto my call!

O grant me that in all,

This will of mine

May still be one with thine!

Teach me to answer still,

Whate'er my lot may be,

To all thou sendest me,

Of good or ill;

"All goeth as God will."

—Alice Williams.

———

THE SHADOW OF THE GREAT ROCK

Sweet is the solace of thy love,

My heavenly Friend, to me,

While through the hidden way of faith

I journey home with thee,

Learning by quiet thankfulness

As a dear child to be.

Though from the shadow of thy peace

My feet would often stray,

Thy mercy follows all my steps,

And will not turn away;

Yea, thou wilt comfort me at last

As none beneath thee may.

No other comforter I need

If thou, O Lord, be mine;

Thy rod will bring my spirit low,

Thy fire my heart refine,

And cause me pain that none may feel

By other love than thine.

Then in the secret of my soul,

Though hosts my peace invade,

Though through a waste and weary land

My lonely way be made,

Thou, even thou, wilt comfort me;

I need not be afraid.

O there is nothing in the world

To weigh against thy will;

Even the dark times I dread the most

Thy covenant fulfill;

And when the pleasant morning dawns

I find thee with me still.

Still in the solitary place

I would awhile abide.

Till with the solace of thy love

My soul is satisfied,

And all my hopes of happiness

Stay calmly at thy side.

On thy compassion I repose

In weakness and distress;

I will not ask for greater ease

Lest I should love thee less,

It is a blessed thing for me

To need thy tenderness.

—Anna Letitia Waring.

———

RABIA

There was of old a Moslem saint

Named Rabia. On her bed she lay

Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint.

"Send for the holy men to pray."

And two were sent. The first drew near:

"The prayers of no man are sincere

Who does not bow beneath the rod,

And bear the chastening strokes of God."

Whereto the second, more severe:

"The prayers of no man are sincere

Who does not in the rod rejoice

And make the strokes he bears his choice."

Then she, who felt that in such pain

The love of self did still remain,

Answered, "No prayers can be sincere

When they from whose wrung hearts they fall

Are not as I am, lying here,

Who long since have forgotten all.

Dear Lord of love! There is no pain."

So Rabia, and was well again.

—Edmund Clarence Stedman.

———

THREE STAGES OF PIETY

Rabia, sick upon her bed,

By two saints was visited:

Holy Malik, Hassan wise,

Men of mark in Moslem eyes.

Hassan said: "Whose prayer is pure

Will God's chastisement endure."

Malik, from a deeper sense,

Uttered his experience:

"He who loves his Master's choice

Will in chastisement rejoice."

Rabia saw some selfish will

In their maxims lingering still,

And replied: "O men of grace!

He who sees his Master's face

"Will not in his prayer recall

That he is chastised at all."

—Arabian, tr. by James Freeman Clarke, from the German of Tholuck.

(Rabia was a very holy Arabian woman who lived in the second century of the Hegira, or the eighth century of our era.)

———

PRAYER'S GRACE

Round holy Rabia's suffering bed

The wise men gathered, gazing gravely.

"Daughter of God!" the youngest said,

"Endure thy Father's chastening bravely;

They who have steeped their souls in prayer

Can any anguish calmly bear."

She answered not, and turned aside,

Though not reproachfully nor sadly.

"Daughter of God!" the eldest cried,

"Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly;

They who have learned to pray aright

From pain's dark well draw up delight."

Then spake she out: "Your words are fair;

But, oh, the truth lies deeper still.

I know not, when absorbed in prayer,

Pleasure or pain, or good or ill.

They who God's face can understand

Feel not the workings of his hand."

—Monckton Milnes.

———

I LOVE THY WILL

I love thy will, O God!

Thy blessèd, perfect will,

In which this once rebellious heart

Lies satisfied and still.

I love thy will, O God!

It is my joy, my rest;

It glorifies my common task,

It makes each trial blest.

I love thy will, O God!

The sunshine or the rain;

Some days are bright with praise, and some

Sweet with accepted pain.

I love thy will, O God!

O hear my earnest plea,

That as thy will is done in heaven

It may be done in me!

—Bessie Pegg MacLaughlin.

———

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

—Tr. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

DAILY BREAD

I pray, with meek hands on my breast,

"Thy will be done, thy kingdom come,"

But shouldst thou call my dear ones home

Should I still say, "'Tis best;

Thy will be done"?

I cannot tell. I probe my heart

With sharpest instruments of pain,

And listen if the sweet refrain

Still wells up through the smart—

"Thy will be done!"

I cannot tell. I yield the quest,

Content if only day by day

My God shall give me grace to say,

"Father, thou knowest best;

Thy will be done!"

He gives no strength for coming ill,

Until its advent. Then he rolls

His love in on his waiting souls,

Sure of their sweet "Thy will,

Thy will be done!"

"Give us this day our daily bread"—

So prayed the Christ, and so will I;

Father, my daily bread supply,

Or, if I go unfed,

"Thy will be done!"

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

———

APPROACHES

When thou turnest away from ill

Christ is this side of thy hill.

When thou turnest towards good

Christ is walking in thy wood.

When thy heart says, "Father, pardon!"

Then the Lord is in thy garden.

When stern duty wakes to watch

Then his hand is on the latch.

But when hope thy song doth rouse

Then the Lord is in the house.

When to love is all thy wit

Christ doth at thy table sit.

When God's will is thy heart's pole

Then is Christ thy very soul.

—George Macdonald.

———

SUBMISSION

But that thou art my wisdom, Lord,

And both mine eyes are thine.

My mind would be extremely stirred

For missing my design.

Were it not better to bestow

Some place and power on me?

Then should thy praises with me grow,

And share in my degree.

But when I thus dispute and grieve

I do resume my sight;

And, pilfering what I once did give,

Disseize thee of thy right.

How know I, if thou shouldst me raise.

That I should then raise thee?

Perhaps great places and thy praise

Do not so well agree.

Wherefore unto my gift I stand;

I will no more advise;

Only do thou lend me a hand,

Since thou hast both mine eyes.

—George Herbert.

———

YOUTH'S WARNING

Beware, exulting youth, beware,

When life's young pleasures woo,

That ere you yield yon shrine your heart,

And keep your conscience true!

For sake of silver spent to-day

Why pledge to-morrow's gold?

Or in hot blood implant remorse,

To grow when blood is cold?

If wrong you do, if false you play,

In summer among the flowers,

You must atone, you must repay,

In winter among the showers.

To turn the balances of heaven

Surpasses mortal power;

For every white there is a black,

For every sweet a sour.

For every up there is a down,

For every folly shame,

And retribution follows guilt

As burning follows flame.

If wrong you do, if false you play,

In summer among the flowers,

You must atone, you must repay

In winter among the showers.

—George Macdonald.

———

THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS

I love thy skies, thy sunny mists,

Thy fields, thy mountains hoar,

Thy wind that bloweth where it lists;

Thy will, I love it more.

I love thy hidden truth to seek

All round, in sea, on shore;

The arts whereby like gods we speak;

Thy will to me is more.

I love thy men and women, Lord,

The children round thy door,

Calm thoughts that inward strength afford;

Thy will, O Lord, is more.

But when thy will my life shall hold,

Thine to the very core,

The world which that same will did mold

I shall love ten times more.

—George Macdonald.

———

No child of man may perish ere his time arrives;

A thousand arrows pierce him and he still survives;

But when the moment fixed in heaven's eternal will

Comes round, a single blade of yielding grass may kill.

—From the Mahabharata, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

———

God gives to man the power to strike or miss you;

It is not thy foe who did the thing.

The arrow from the bow may seem to issue,

But we know an archer drew the string.

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

———

On two days it steads not to run from thy grave:

The appointed and the unappointed day;

On the first neither balm nor physician can save,

Nor thee on the second the universe slay.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

ROUNDEL

I do not know thy final will,

It is too good for me to know.

Thou willest that I mercy show,

That I take heed and do no ill,

That I the needy warm and fill,

Nor stones at any sinner throw;

But I know not thy final will,

It is too good for me to know.

I know thy love unspeakable—

For love's sake able to send woe!

To find thine own thou lost didst go,

And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill!

How should I know thy final will,

Godwise too good for me to know!

—George Macdonald.

———

One prayer I have—all prayers in one—

When I am wholly thine:

Thy will, my God, thy will be done,

And let that will be mine;

All-wise, almighty, and all-good,

In thee I firmly trust,

Thy ways, unknown or understood,

Are merciful and just.

———

Fear him, ye saints, and you will then

Have nothing else to fear;

Make you his service your delight,

He'll make your wants his care.

———

The best will is our Father's will,

And we may rest there calm and still;

O make it hour by hour thine own,

And wish for naught but that alone

Which pleases God.

—Paul Gerhardt.

———

It is Lucifer,

The son of mystery;

And since God suffers him to be

He, too, is God's minister,

And labors for some good

By us not understood!

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

Rabbi Jehosha had the skill

To know that heaven is in God's will.

—James Russell Lowell.

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