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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 prayer 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.

Thy 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
The dark relief of sacrifice.

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 G. WHITTIER.

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January 12.

As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you. ISA. lxvi. 13.

GOD has not so created the creatures that after creat

ing He abandons them. He loves them, delights in them, is with them; moves and sustains each creature according to its kind. We Christians know that with God creating and sustaining are one thing.

LUTHER.

THE TRUE COMFORTER.

WHEN me my nearest friends forsake,
When I am wretched and forlorn,
I refuge with the Father take,

My pang to heaven's God is borne ;
Unchained by words, my silent sigh
Steals to the Loving One on high.

What deepest, keenest, stirs the heart,
What human lips can never speak,

What ne'er to human ear can dart,

Hath voice to Him who shields the weak;

Its mystic force to Him unrolls,

The spirit's source, the soul of souls.

In Christ's dear name I will outpour
My fullest bosom, Lord, to Thee;
Learn by sweet silence to adore,

To see, by seeking not to see;
My needs shall feed Thine altar's flame,
If I them breathe in Christ's dear name.

HYMNS OF DENMARK.

January 13.

Mine eyes fail for Thy word, saying, When wilt Thou com

fort me

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OUR sacrifice is burning on the altar, and around you the temple of life is filled with smoke, and no light comes in through the windows, and the very walls you cannot see, but you know where you are; for as long as you suffer you are nigh the altar. That you know, and by that knowledge hold fast. Be quiet, fear not; and be you sure that when your sacrifice is over, one after the other the windows that open into the infinite - faith and hope will show themselves; and the air about you will be the clearer and the sweeter for having been so darkened awhile.

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WILLIAM Mountford.

THE DIVINE HELPER.

THOU that art strong to comfort, look on me!
I sit in darkness and behold no light;
Over my soul the waves of agony

Have gone and left me in a rayless night.

A bruised and broken reed sustain ! sustain !
Divinest Comforter, to Thee I fly,

To whom no soul hath ever fled in vain ;
Support me with Thy love, or else I die!

Father, whate'er I had, it all was Thine;
A God of mercy Thou hast ever been ;
Oh, help me what I most love to resign,
And if I murmur, count it not for sin !

My soul is strengthened now, and it shall bear
All that remains, whatever it may be ;
And from the very depths of my despair

I will look up, O God, and trust in Thee.

January 14.

The day is Thine, the night also is Thine; Thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: Thou hast made summer and winter. Ps. lxxiv. 16, 17.

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HAT fire is this that so warmeth my heart? What light is this that so enlighteneth my soul! O fire that always burneth, and never goeth out, kindle me! O light which ever shineth, and art never darkened, illuminate me ! O that I had my heat from thee, most holy fire! how sweetly dost thou burn!

SAINT AUGUSTINE.

ALL THINGS ARE THINE.

THOU art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things bright and fair are Thine!

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.

When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!
THOMAS MOORE

January 15.

Whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. JOHN Xi. 26.

THE

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HE departed have not ceased their communication with us, though the visible chain is broken. they are still the same, they must still think of us. If they live there, they love there. "God is not the God of the dead, but the God of the living." Then it is true, that they live there; and they yet speak to us. From that bright sphere, from that calm region, from the bowers of the life immortal, they speak to us. They say to us, Sigh not in despair over the broken and defeated expectations of earth. Sorrow not as those who have no hope. Bear calmly and cheerfully thy lot. Brighten the chain of love, of sympathy; of communion with all pure minds on earth and in heaven. Come, children of earth!

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come to the bright and blessed land!"

ORVILLE DEWEY.

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits' land!
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,

And we know that the friends we have lost are there;
They are there, and they weep no more!

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And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst,
From the Fountain of Youth ere now;

For there must the stream in its freshness burst,
Which none may find below.

And we know that they will not be lured to earth,
From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours;

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