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Think truly, and thy thoughts
Shall the world's famine feed;
Shall be a fruitful seed;
Live truly, and thy life shall be
A great and noble creed.
AM so weak, dear Lord, I cannot stand
But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding,
I am so needy, Lord, and yet I know
And hour by hour that never-failing treasure
It is so sweet to trust Thy word alone!
The unveiling of Thy purpose, or the shining
Thy promise-roll is all my own,
Thy word is enough for me.
The human heart asks love. But now I know
All real, and full, and marvelous affection
Thy love is enough for me.
There were strange soul depths, restless, vast, and broad,
An infinite craving for some infinite stilling;
Thou, Thou art enough for me!
FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.
ND now the slowly fading light
Among the gathering shadows.
Above the ice-bound river.
While on the far horizon's edge
With shapeless phantoms teeming.
My feet shall cease their roaming,
So when my day of life is done,
And twilight shadows lengthen,
This hope my heart shall strengthen,
My feet shall cease from roaming,
SHALL steer my bark where the waves roll dark,
I shall cross a stranger sea;
But I know I shall land on that bright strand
There are faces there divinely fair,
The earth lost long ago;
And foreheads white, where curls lay bright,
Like sunbeams over snow.
There are sunny eyes like their own blue skies—
That will grow as bright as the stars of night
There are little feet that I loved to meet
I know they will bound when the rippling sound
I shall see them stand on the gleaming sand,
Their white arms o'er the tide, Waiting to twine their hands in mine
When I reach the farther side.
"A man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear the cross."-Matt. xxvii, 32.
YOMPEL me, Lord, to bear Thy cross!
Then, though the weary flesh rebel,
In every hour of pain and loss,
The willing soul shall cry, 'Tis well.
Compel me, Lord, to bear Thy cross!
Compel me, Lord, to bear Thy cross,
Oh, blest Cyrenian! humbly bowed
To bear reproach for Jesus' name.
So would I walk, not bent with care,
Nor crushed to earth by heavy dross;
NOTHING BUT LEAVES.
TOTHING but leaves; the Spirit grieves Over a wasted life,
O'er sins committed while conscience slept,
Folly and shame and strife,-
Nothing but leaves; no ripened sheaves
We sow our seed-lo, tares and weeds,
Nothing but leaves.
Nothing but leaves; and memory weaves
No veil to hide the past;
And as we trace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day,
Sadly we find at last
Nothing but leaves.
And shall we meet the Master so,