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Sunday School Selections.
PATHWAYS IN PALESTINE.
THE pathways of Thy land are little changed
Since Thou wert there;
The busy world through other ways has ranged, And left these bare.
The rocky path still climbs the glowing steep
Though rains of two millenniums wear it deep,
Still to the gardens o'er the brook it leads,
Before his sheep the shepherd on it treads;
The wild fig throws broad shadows o'er it still,
And as when gazing Thou didst weep o'er them, From height to height
The white roofs of discrowned Jerusalem
Burst on our sight.
These ways were strewed with garments once, and palm,
Here through Thy triumph on Thou passedst, calm,
The waves have washed fresh sands upon the shore
But chiselled in the hill-sides evermore
Thy paths we see.
Man has not changed them in that slumbering land,
Where Thy feet trod to bless, we still may stand;
Yet we have traces of Thy footprints, far
Where'er the poor, and tired, and suffering are,
Nor with fond, sad regrets, Thy steps we trace;
And now, wherever meets Thy lowliest band
There is Thy presence, there Thy "Holy Land "-
WHY I SING.
SING because I love to sing, Because instinctive fancies move; Because it hurts no earthly thing, Because it pleases some I love.
Because it cheats night's weary hours. Because it cheers the brightest day; Because, like prayer and light and flowers, It helps me on my heavenly way.
Because with peals of happy words
May tune a heart to love and prayer.
Because all sounds of human fate
Because above the changing skies
The Spirit saith good angels sing; Because wherever sunshine lies
The woods and waves with music ring.
Because amid earth's Babel noise
THE ROSARY OF MY YEARS.
SOME reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art—
But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, And their life by the moans of their heart.
The dials of earth may show
The length, not the depth, of years.
Few or many they come-few or many they go-
Ah! not by the silver gray
That creeps through the sunny hair,
And not by the scenes that we pass on our way— And not by the furrows the finger of care
On the forehead and face have made;
Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade
For the young are ofttimes old,
Though their brow be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm their heart lies coldO'er them the springtime-but winter is there.
And the old are ofttimes young,
When their hair is thin and white;
And they sing in age as in youth they sung,
But bead by bead I tell
The rosary of my years;
From a cross to a cross they lead—'tis well!
Better a day of strife
Then a century of sleep;
Give me instead of a long stream of life,
The tempest and tears of the deep.
A thousand joys may foam
On the billows of all the years;
But never the foam brings the brave bark home;
It reaches the haven through tears.
THE BLESSINGS OF TO-DAY.
F we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road,
If we knew the baby fingers
Pressed against the window-pane
Never trouble us again—