O God, our heavenly Father! we come before Thee at this morning hour, thanking Thee for Thy loving care, that has protected us through the night, and for the blessed sleep, that has brought refreshment to our bodies and minds. We are grateful, O Father, for this new day, rich in hope and promise and opportunity, and we pray that, as its hours pass, we may be kept very near to Thee, that the "Words of our mouth and the meditations of our heart, may be acceptable in Thy sight," that when the day is done, and we come to Thee at its close, we need in no wise to be ashamed. Amen.
August 29
How often does the chopper of some stone,
While toiling at his task of heave and shock,
Find in the heart-space of a severed rock
The impress of some fern that once had grown,
Full of aspiring life and color-tone,
Deep in the forest where the shadows flock,
Till, caught within the adamantine block,
It lay for ages hidden and unknown!
So many a beauteous thought blooms in the mind
But unexpressed, droops down into the soul
And lies unuttered in the silence there
Until some opener of the soul shall find
The fern-like fossilled dream, complete and whole,
And marvel at its beauty past compare.
Alfred L. Donaldson.
O mighty Potter, to whose steadfast eyes
A thousand years lie open as one day,
Thy patient hand set firm on life's great wheel
This heavy, shapeless clay.
Rough and imperfect, yet it owns Thy touch;
Spare not, nor stay, the pressure of Thine hand;
Make known Thy power; and soon, or late, let love
Perfect what love hath planned!
Amen.
L. H. Hammond.
August 30
The dark green summer, with its massive hues,
Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold;
A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold
The high slope of the ferny hill indues.
The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse
O'er glimmering rock, smooth lake, and spiked array
Of hedgerow thorns a unity of gray.
All things appear their tangible form to lose
In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom
Melts, as the sun puts off his muddy veil.
And now the birds their twittering songs resume,
All summer silent in the leafy dale.
In spring they piped of love on every tree,
But now they sing the song of memory.