Not set in gold, nor decked with gems,
By wealth and pride possessed;
But rich or poor, or high or low,
Each bears it in his breast.
Such is the clock that measures life,—
Of flesh and spirit blended,—
And thus ’t will run within the breast,
Till that strange life is ended.
GOD IS LOVE.
Lo! the heavens are breaking,
Pure and bright above;
Light and life awaking,
Murmur, “God is love.”
Music now is ringing,
Through the leafy grove,
Feathered songsters, singing,
Warble, “God is love.”
Wake, my heart, and springing,
Spread thy wings above;
Soaring still, and singing,—
Singing, “God is love.”
TIME.
A minute,—how soon it is flown!
And yet, how important it is!
God calls every moment His own,—
For all our existence is His:
And tho’ we may waste many moments each day,
He notices each that we squander away.
We should not a minute despise,
Although it so quickly is o’er;
We know that it rapidly flies,
And therefore should prize it the more.
Another, indeed, may appear in its stead;
But that precious minute, for ever, is fled.
’Tis easy to squander our years
In idleness, folly, and strife;
But, oh! no repentance nor tears
Can bring back one moment of life.
Then wisely improve all the time as it goes,
And life will be happy, and peaceful the close.