Our Father we thank Thee for the light of this new day. Tenderly Thou hast withdrawn the curtain of the night and shown us the beauties and glories of Nature, reminding us of Thine own blessed verdict in the dawn of creation, "Behold they are very good." Good indeed, is it to live in such a world, and we thank Thee for our being. We ask this morning, dear Lord, not for the perishing things of earth, but for continued power and disposition to enjoy Thee and Thy works, for a faith that never wavers and a hope that never grows dim, for such a portion of this world's goods as the wise may enjoy without harm and the righteous hold without wrong. Amen.
October 18
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless:
You possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour,
Glad, contented, free and fearless,—
Lifts a sunny face to heaven
When a sunny day is given;
Makes a summer of its own,
Blooming late and all alone.
Henry Van Dyke.
We thank Thee, O Father, that, to those who obey the command of Jesus to consider them, the flowers become prophets of God and preachers of righteousness. We thank Thee for the worship which They render Thee, so pure, so brave, so glad, and so acceptable. They may not hinder Thee and Thou dost work Thy perfect will in them; O give us the wisdom and the grace to make Thee welcome to our hearts until in us also Thou shalt work Thy perfect will. So may we find our true use and felicity, and render unto Thee the praise that is Thy due. And this we ask through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
October 19
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with Him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells
With a sweet kernel; to set to budding more
And still more later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er brimmed their clammy cells.
John Keats.