AFFLICTION

There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair. The air is full of farewells to the dying And mourning for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call death. She is not dead—the child of our affection— But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. * * * * * * * We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I bless thee, Lord, for sorrows sent To break my dream of human power; For now, my shallow cistern spent, I find thy founts, and thirst no more. I take Thy hand, and fears grow still; Behold thy face, and doubts remove; Who would not yield his wavering will To perfect Truth and boundless Love? That Love this restless soul doth teach The strength of thine eternal calm; And tune its sad but broken speech To join on earth the angel's psalm. Oh, be it patient in thy hands, And drawn, through each mysterious hour, To service of thy pure commands, The narrow way of Love and Power. —Samuel Johnson.

Go not far from me, O my strength, Whom all my times obey: Take from me any thing Thou wilt, But go not thou away— And let the storm that does thy work Deal with me as it may. On thy compassion I repose, In weakness and distress; I will not ask for greater ease, Lest I should love Thee less. Oh 'tis a blessed thing for me To need thy tenderness. While many sympathizing hearts For my deliverance care, Thou, in thy wiser, stronger love, Art teaching me to bear— By the sweet voice of thankful song, And calm, confiding prayer. Thy love has many a lighted path, No outward eye can trace, And my heart sees thee in the deep, With darkness on its face. And communes with thee, 'mid the storm, As in a secret place. O Comforter of God's redeemed, Whom the world does not see, What hand should pluck me from the flood That casts my soul on thee? Who would not suffer pain like mine To be consoled like me? When I am feeble as a child, And flesh and heart give way, Then on thy everlasting strength With passive trust I stay. And the rough wind becomes a song, The darkness shines like day. O blessed are the eyes that see— Though silent anguish show— The love that in their hours of sleep Unthanked may come and go. And blessed are the ears that hear, Though kept awake by woe. Happy are they that learn, in thee— Though patient suffering teach— The secret of enduring strength And praise too deep for speech: Peace that no pressure from without, No strife within, can reach. There is no death for me to fear, For Christ, my Lord, hath died; There is no curse in this my pain, For he was crucified. And it is fellowship with him That keeps me near his side. My heart is fixed—O God, my strength— My heart is strong to bear; I will be joyful in thy love, And peaceful in thy care. Deal with me, for my Saviour's sake, According to his prayer. No suffering while it lasts is joy, How blest soe'er it be, Yet may the chastened child be glad His Father's face to see; And oh, it is not hard to bear What must be borne in thee. It is not hard to bear by faith, In thine own bosom laid, The trial of a soul redeemed, For thy rejoicing made. Well may the heart in patience rest That none can make afraid. Safe in thy sanctifying grace— Almighty to restore— Borne onward, sin and death behind, And love and life before, O let my soul abound in hope, And praise thee more and more. Deep unto deep may call, but I With peaceful heart will say— Thy loving-kindness hath a charge No waves can take away; And let the storm that speeds me home Deal with me as it may. —Anna Letitia Waring.

Walking along the shore one morn, A holy man by chance I found Who by a tiger had been torn And had no salve to heal his wound. Long time he suffered grievous pain, But not the less to the Most High He offered thanks. They asked him, Why? For answer he thanked God again; And then to them: "That I am in No greater peril than you see: That what has overtaken me Is but misfortune—and not sin." —Richard Henry Stoddard.

If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain; Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in. —Robert Louis Stevenson.

I asked the Lord that I might grow In faith and love and every grace; Might more of his salvation know, And seek more earnestly his face. 'Twas He who taught me thus to pray, And he, I trust, has answer'd prayer; But it has been in such a way As almost drove me to despair. I hop'd that in some favor'd hour At once he'd answer my request, And by his love's constraining power Subdue my sins and give me rest. Instead of this he made me feel The hidden evils of my heart, And let the angry powers of hell Assault my soul in ev'ry part. Yes, more: with his own hand he seem'd Intent to aggravate my woe, Cross'd all the fair designs I schemed, Blasted my gourds and laid them low. "Lord, why is this?" I trembling cried; "Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?" "'Tis in this way," the Lord replied, "I answer prayer for grace and faith. "These inward trials I employ From self and pride to set thee free, And break thy schemes of earthly joy That thou mayest set thine all in me!" —John Newton.

Source of my life's refreshing springs, Whose presence in my heart sustains me, Thy love appoints me pleasant things, Thy mercy orders all that pains me. If loving hearts were never lonely, If all they wished might always be, Accepting what they look for only, They might be glad—but not in thee. Well may thy own beloved, who see In all their lot their Father's pleasure, Bear loss of all they love save thee, Their living, everlasting treasure. Well may thy happy children cease From restless wishes, prone to sin, And, in thine own exceeding peace, Yield to thy daily discipline. We need as much the cross we bear As air we breathe, as light we see! It draws us to thy side in prayer, It binds us to our strength in thee. —Anna Letitia Waring.

In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen; To make the music and the beauty needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand; Let not the music that is in us die. Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let Hidden and lost thy form within us lie! Spare not the stroke! Do with us as thou wilt! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred; Complete thy purpose that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord! —Horatius Bonar.

The childish smile is fair, but lovelier far The smiles which tell of griefs that now no longer are. —John Sterling.

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swoon'd nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend, and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee; Like summer tempest came her tears: "Sweet my child, I live for thee." —Alfred Tennyson.

O trifling task so often done, Yet ever to be done anew! O cares which come with every sun, Morn after morn, the long years through! We sink beneath their paltry sway— The irksome calls of every day. The restless sense of wasted power, The tiresome round of little things, Are hard to bear, as hour by hour Its tedious iteration brings; Who shall evade or who delay The small demands of every day? The bowlder, in the torrent's course By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force And yields its substance grain by grain; So crumble strongest lives away Beneath the wear of every day. Who finds the lion in his lair, Who tracks the tiger for his life May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife, Yet powerless he to scathe or slay The vexing gnats of every day. The steady strain that never stops Is mightier than the fiercest shock; The constant fall of water drops Will groove the adamantine rock; We feel our noblest powers decay In feeble wars with every day. We rise to meet a heavy blow— Our souls a sudden bravery fills— But we endure not always so The drop by drop of little ills; We still deplore, and still obey, The hard behests of every day. The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath The needle-points of frets and cares; The stoutest spirits they dismay— The tiny stings of every day. And even saints of holy fame, Whose souls by faith have overcome, Who won amid the cruel flame The molten crown of martyrdom, Bore not without complaint alway The petty pains of every day. Ah, more than martyr's aureole, And more than hero's heart of fire, We need the humble strength of soul Which daily toils and ills require; Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may, An added grace for every day.

What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this dark and suffering night? Father, what shall thine "afterward" be? Hast thou a morning of joy for me, And a new and joyous light? What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For the moan that I cannot stay? Shall it issue in some new song of praise, Sweeter than sorrowless heart could raise, When the night hath passed away? What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, For this helplessness of pain? A clearer view of my home above, Of my Father's strength and my Father's love— Shall this be my lasting gain? What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord? How long must thy child endure? Thou knowest! 'Tis well that I know it not! Thine "afterward" cometh—I cannot tell what, But I know that thy word is sure. What shall thine "afterward" be, O Lord, I wonder—and wait to see (While to thy chastening hand I bow) What "peaceable fruit" may be ripening now— Ripening fast for me! —Frances Ridley Havergal.

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth, Such as men give and take from day to day, Comes in the common walk of easy life, Blown by the careless wind across our way. Great truths are greatly won, not found by chance, Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream; But grasped in the great struggle of the soul Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream. But in the day of conflict, fear and grief, When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light, Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, Truth springs like harvest from the well-plowed field. And the soul feels it has not wept in vain. —Horatius Bonar.

Though trouble-tossed and torture-torn The kingliest kings are crowned with thorn. —Gerald Massey.

Heavier the cross the stronger faith: The loaded palm strikes deeper root; The vine-juice sweetly issueth When men have pressed the clustered fruit; And courage grows where dangers come Like pearls beneath the salt sea foam. Heavier the cross the heartier prayer; The bruisèd herbs most fragrant are; If sky and wind were always fair The sailor would not watch the star; And David's psalms had ne'er been sung If grief his heart had never wrung. Heavier the cross the more aspiring; From vales we climb to mountain's crest; The pilgrim, of the desert tiring, Longs for the Canaan of his rest. The dove has here no rest in sight, And to the ark she wings her flight. Heavier the cross the easier dying; Death is a friendlier face to see; To life's decay one bids defying, From life's distress one then is free; The cross sublimely lifts our faith To him who triumphed over death. Thou Crucified! the cross I carry— The longer may it dearer be; And, lest I faint while here I tarry, Implant thou such a heart in me That faith, hope, love, may flourish there Till for the cross my crown I wear. —Benjamin Schmolke.

A worthy man of Paris town Came to the bishop there: His face, o'erclouded with dismay, Betrayed a fixed despair. "Father," said he, "a sinner vile Am I, against my will: Each hour I humbly pray for faith, But am a doubter still. "Sure were I not despised of God, He would not leave me so To struggle thus in constant strife Against the deadly foe." The bishop to his sorrowing son Thus spoke a kind relief: "The King of France has castles twain; To each he sends a chief. "There's Montelhéry, far inland, That stands in place secure; While La Rochelle, upon the coast, Doth sieges oft endure. "Now for these castles—both preserved— First in his prince's love Shall Montelhéry's chief be placed, Or La Rochelle's above?" "Oh! doubtless, sire," the sinner said, "That king will love the most The man whose task was hard to keep His castle on the coast!" "Son," said the bishop, "thou art right; Apply this reasoning well: My heart is Montelhéry fort, And thine is La Rochelle!"

I think, if thou could'st know, O soul, that will complain, What lies concealed below Our burden and our pain— How just our anguish brings Nearer those longed-for things We seek for now in vain— I think thou would'st rejoice and not complain. I think, if thou could'st see, With thy dim mortal sight, How meanings, dark to thee, Are shadows hiding light; Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, Life's purpose all perplexed— If thou could'st see them right, I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, and bright. And yet thou can'st not know; And yet thou can'st not see; Wisdom and sight are slow In poor humanity. If thou could'st trust, poor soul, In him who rules the whole, Thou would'st find peace and rest: Wisdom and sight are well, but trust is best.

"O Lord, my God!" I oft have said, "Had I some other cross instead Of this I bear from day to day, 'Twere easier to go on my way. "I do not murmur at its weight; That Thou hast made proportionate To my scant strength; but oh! full sore It presses where it pressed before. "Change for a space, however brief, The wonted burden, that relief May o'er my aching shoulders steal, And the deep bruise have room to heal!" While thus I sadly sighed to-day I heard my gracious Father say, "Can'st thou not trust my love, my child, And to thy cross be reconciled? "I fashioned it thy needs to meet; Nor were thy discipline complete Without that very pain and bruise Which thy weak heart would fain refuse." Ashamed, I answered, "As Thou wilt! I own my faithlessness and guilt; Welcome the weary pain shall be, Since only that is best for me."

He took them from me, one by one, The things I set my heart upon; They looked so harmless, fair, and blest; Would they have hurt me? God knows best. He loves me so, he would not wrest Them from me if it were not best. He took them from me, one by one, The friends I set my heart upon. O did they come, they and their love, Between me and my Lord above? Were they as idols in my breast? It may be. God in heaven knows best. I will not say I did not weep, As doth a child that wants to keep The pleasant things in hurtful play His wiser parent takes away; But in this comfort I will rest: He who hath taken knoweth best.

O Thou who driest the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to thee! The friends who in our sunshine live When winter comes are flown; And he who has but tears to give Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. O who could bear life's stormy doom Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above! Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day. —Thomas Moore.

If none were sick and none were sad What service could we render? I think if we were always glad We scarcely could be tender. Did our beloved never need Our patient ministration Earth would grow cold, and miss indeed Its sweetest consolation. If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart— Life would be disenchanted.

Banish far from me all I love, The smiles of friends, the old fireside, And drive me to that home of homes, The heart of Jesus crucified. Take all the light away from earth, Take all that men can love from me; Let all I lean upon give way, That I may lean on naught but Thee. —Frederick William Faber.

God never would send you the darkness If he felt you could bear the light; But you would not cling to his guiding hand If the way were always bright; And you would not care to walk by faith Could you always walk by sight. 'Tis true he has many an anguish For your sorrowful heart to bear, And many a cruel thorn-crown For your tired head to wear: He knows how few would reach heaven at all If pain did not guide them there. So he sends you the blinding darkness, And the furnace of seven-fold heat. 'Tis the only way, believe me, To keep you close to his feet, For 'tis always so easy to wander When our lives are glad and sweet. Then nestle your hand in your Father's And sing, if you can, as you go; Your song may cheer some one behind you Whose courage is sinking low. And—well—if your lips do quiver— God will love you better so.

I made the cross myself whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought is torture as I toil Up life's steep Calvary. To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong. If I had guessed—if I had dreamed— Its weight was meant for me, I should have made a lighter cross To bear up Calvary. —Anne Reeve Aldrich.

The unpolished pearl can never shine— 'Tis sorrow makes the soul divine. —From the Japanese, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

A Sower went forth to sow; His eyes were dark with woe; He crushed the flowers beneath his feet, Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, That prayed for pity everywhere. He came to a field that was harried By iron, and to heaven laid bare; He shook the seed that he carried O'er that brown and bladeless place. He shook it, as God shakes hail Over a doomèd land. When lightnings interlace The sky and the earth, and his wand Of love is a thunder-flail. Thus did that Sower sow; His seed was human blood, And tears of women and men. And I, who near him stood, Said: When the crop comes, then There will be sobbing and sighing, Weeping and wailing and crying, Flame, and ashes, and woe.

It was an autumn day When next I went that way. And what, think you, did I say, What was it that I heard, What music was in the air? The song of a sweet-voiced bird? Nay—but the songs of many Thrilled through with praise and prayer. Of all those voices not any Were sad of memory; But a sea of sunlight flowed, A golden harvest glowed, And I said, Thou only art wise, God of the earth and skies! And I praise thee, again and again, For the Sower whose name is Pain. —Richard Watson Gilder.

Not disabled in the combat, No, nor absent from your post; You are doing gallant service Where the Master needs you most. It was noble to give battle While the world stood cheering on; It is nobler to lie patient, Leaving half one's work undone. And the King counts up his heroes Where the desperate charge was led, But he writes, "My Best Belovèd," Over many a sick man's bed.

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load.

I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead: Lead me aright. Though strength should falter and though heart should bleed, Through peace to light.

I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed Full radiance here; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear.

I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see; Better in darkness just to feel thy hand, And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day; but peace divine Like quiet night. Lead me, O Lord, till perfect day shall shine Through peace to light.

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

With silence only as their benediction God's angels come, Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb. Yet would we say, what every heart approveth, Our Father's will, Calling to him the dear ones whom he loveth, Is mercy still. Not upon us or ours the solemn angel Hath evil wrought; The funeral anthem is a glad evangel— The good die not! God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What he has given; They live on earth in thought and deed as truly As in his heaven. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Pain's furnace-heat within me quivers, God's breath upon the flame doth blow; And all my heart in anguish shivers And trembles at the fiery glow; And yet I whisper—"As God will!" And in his hottest fire stand still. He comes, and lays my heart, all heated, On the hard anvil, minded so Into his own fair shape to beat it With his great hammer, blow on blow; And yet I whisper—"As God will!" And at his heaviest blows hold still. He takes my softened heart and beats it; The sparks fly off at every blow; He turns it o'er and o'er and heats it, And lets it cool, and makes it glow; And yet I whisper—"As God will!" And in his mighty hand hold still. Why should I murmur? for the sorrow Thus only longer-lived would be; Its end may come, and will to-morrow, When God has done his work in me; So I say trusting—"As God will!" And, trusting to the end, hold still. —Julius Sturm.

Not when with self dissatisfied, O Lord, I lowly lie, So much I need thy grace to guide, And thy reproving eye, As when the sound of human praise Grows pleasant to my ear, And in its light my broken ways Fair and complete appear. By failure and defeat made wise, We come to know, at length, What strength within our weakness lies, What weakness in our strength; What inward peace is born of strife What power of being spent; What wings unto our upward life Is noble discontent. O Lord, we need thy shaming look That burns all low desire; The discipline of thy rebuke Shall be refining fire! —Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

Some evil upon Rabia fell; And one who loved and knew her well Murmured that God with pain undue Should strike a child so fond and true. But she replied, "Believe and trust That all I suffer is most just. I had, in contemplation, striven To realize the joys of heaven; I had extended fancy's flights Through all that region of delights, Had counted, till the numbers failed, The pleasures on the blest entailed. Had sounded the ecstatic rest I should enjoy on Allah's breast— And for these thoughts I now atone; They were of something of my own, And were not thoughts of him alone." —From the Arabian.

O thou so weary of thy self-denials, And so impatient of thy little cross, Is it so hard to bear thy daily trials, And count all earthly things a gainful loss? Canst thou forget thy Christian superscription, "Behold, we count them happy which endure"? What treasure wouldst thou, in the land Egyptian, Repass the stormy water to secure? And wilt thou yield thy sure and glorious promise For the poor, fleeting joys earth can afford? No hand can take away the treasure from us That rests within the keeping of the Lord.

Oft when of God we ask For fuller, happier life, He sets us some new task Involving care and strife; Is this the boon for which we sought? Has prayer new trouble on us brought? This is indeed the boon, Though strange to us it seems; We pierce the rock, and soon The blessing on us streams; For when we are the most athirst, Then the clear waters on us burst. We toil as in the field Wherein, to us unknown, A treasure lies concealed Which may be all our own. And shall we of the toil complain That speedily will bring such gain? We dig the wells of life, And God the waters gives; We win our way by strife, Then he within us lives; And only war could make us meet For peace so sacred and so sweet. —Thomas Toke Lynch.

Still hope! still act! Be sure that life The source and strength of every good, Wastes down in feeling's empty strife, And dies in dreaming's sickly mood. To toil in tasks however mean For all we know of right and true— In this alone our worth is seen, 'Tis this we were ordained to do. So shalt thou find, in work and thought: The peace that sorrow cannot give; Though grief's worst pangs to thee be taught, By thee let others nobler live. Oh, wait not in the darksome forest, Where thou must needs be left alone, But e'en when memory is sorest, Seek out a path and journey on! Thou wilt have angels near above By whom invisible aid is given; They journey still on tasks of love, And never rest except in heaven. —John Sterling.

In the floods of tribulation, While the billows o'er me roll, Jesus whispers consolation And supports my fainting soul; Sweet affliction That brings Jesus to my soul. Thus the lion yields me honey, From the eater food is given; Strengthened thus I still press forward, Singing on my way to heaven. Sweet affliction, Helping speed me on to heaven. So in darkest dispensations Doth my faithful Lord appear, With his richest consolations To reanimate and cheer; Sweet affliction, Thus to bring my Saviour near. Floods of tribulation heighten, Billows still around me roar; Those who know not Christ they frighten; But my soul defies their power: Sweet affliction, Thus to bring my Saviour near. In the sacred page recorded, Thus His word securely stands; "Fear not; I'm, in trouble, near thee, Naught shall pluck thee from my hands." Sweet affliction, Every word my love demands. All I meet, I find, assists me In my path to heavenly joy, Where, though trials now attend me, Trials never more annoy. Sweet affliction, Every promise gives me joy. Wearing there a weight of glory, Still the path I'll ne'er forget, But, exulting, cry it led me To my blessed Saviour's seat; Sweet affliction, Which hath brought me to his feet. —Pearce.

Glory to God—to God! he saith, Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death. —Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I asked for grace to lift me high, Above the world's depressing cares. God sent me sorrows,—with a sigh I said, He has not heard my prayers. I asked for light, that I might see My path along life's thorny road; But clouds and darkness shadowed me When I expected light from God. I asked for peace, that I might rest To think my sacred duties o'er, When lo! such horrors filled my breast As I had never felt before. And O, I cried, can this be prayer Whose plaints the steadfast mountains move? Can this be heaven's prevailing care? And, O my God, is this thy love? But soon I found that sorrow, worn As duty's garment, strength supplies, And out of darkness meekly borne Unto the righteous light doth rise. And soon I found that fears which stirred My startled soul God's will to do, On me more real peace conferred Than in life's calm I ever knew. Then, Lord, in thy mysterious ways Lead my dependent spirit on, And whensoe'er it kneels and prays, Teach it to say, "Thy will be done!" Let its one thought, one hope, one prayer, Thine image seek, thy glory see; Let every other wish and care Be left confidingly to thee. —John Samuel Bewley Monsell.

Not in each shell the diver brings to air Is found the priceless pearl, but only where Mangled, and torn, and bruised well-nigh to death, The wounded oyster draws its laboring breath. O tired and suffering soul! gauge here your gain; The pearl of patience is the fruit of pain. —Caroline Atherton Mason.

Count each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee. Do thou With courtesy receive him, rise and bow, And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave, Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate Thy soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief should be, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles, to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. —Aubrey Thomas De Vere.

Lord, what is man, That thou art mindful of him? Though in creation's van, Lord, what is man? He wills less than he can, Lets his ideal scoff him! Lord, what is man, That thou art mindful of him? —George Macdonald.

Lord, shall we grumble when thy flames do scourge us? Our sins breathe fire; thy fire returns to purge us. Lord, what an alchemist art thou, whose skill Transmutes to perfect good from perfect ill! —Francis Quarles.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; No traveler e'er reached that blest abode Who found not thorns and briers in his road. —William Cowper.

The cry of man's anguish went up unto God: "Lord, take away pain— The shadow that darkens the world thou hast made, The close-coiling chain That strangles the heart, the burden that weighs On the wings that would soar— Lord, take away pain from the world thou hast made, That it love thee the more!" Then answered the Lord to the cry of his world: "Shall I take away pain And with it the power of the soul to endure, Made strong by the strain? Shall I take away pity, that knits heart to heart, And sacrifice high? Will ye lose all your heroes that lift from the fire White brows to the sky? Shall I take away love, that redeems with a price And smiles at its loss? Can ye spare from your lives, that would climb unto mine, The Christ on his cross?"

'Tis not alone in the sunshine Our lives grow pure and true; There is growth as well in the shadow, And pain has a work to do. So it comes to me more and more As I enter upon each new day: The love of the Father eternal Is over us all the way.

"In pastures green"? Not always; sometimes he Who knoweth best in kindness leadeth me In weary ways where heavy shadows be. But where He leads me I can safely go, And in the blest hereafter I shall know Why in his wisdom he hath led me so.

Thou sweet hand of God, that so woundest my heart, Thou makest me smile while thou mak'st me to smart; It seems as if God were at ball-play; and I, The harder he strikes me the higher I fly. I own it, he bruises, he pierces me sore; But the hammer and chisel afflict me no more. Shall I tell you the reason? It is that I see The Sculptor will carve out an angel for me. I shrink from no suffering, how painful soe'er, When once I can feel that my God's hand is there; For soft on the anvil the iron shall glow When the Smith with his hammer deals blow upon blow. God presses me hard, but he gives patience, too! And I say to myself, "'Tis no more than my due," And no tone from the organ can swell on the breeze Till the organist's fingers press down on the keys. So come, then, and welcome the blow and the pain! Without them no mortal to heaven can attain; For what can the sheaves on the barn floor avail Till the thresher shall beat out the chaff with his flail? 'Tis only a moment God chastens with pain; Joy follows on sorrow like sunshine on rain. Then bear thou what God on thy spirit shall lay; Be dumb; but, when tempted to murmur, then pray. —From the German.

When thou hast thanked thy God for every blessing sent, What time will then remain for murmurs or lament?

We must live through the weary winter If we would value the spring; And the woods must be cold and silent Before the robins sing. The flowers must lie buried in darkness Before they can bud and bloom; And the sweetest and warmest sunshine Comes after the storm and gloom. —Agnes L. Pratt.

We look along the shining ways, To see the angel faces; They come to us in darkest days And in the blackest places. The strongest hearts have strongest need, To them the fiery trial; Who walks a saint in word and deed Is saint by self-denial.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, That the strongest suffer most, That the wisest wander farthest, And most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature Is capacity for pain, That the anguish of the singer Makes the sweetness of the strain?

O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine. And trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine. —James Russell Lowell.

But all God's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after other lift their frowning masks, And we behold the seraph's face beneath All radiant with the glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of God. —James Russell Lowell.

The man whom God delights to bless He never curses with success. Thrice happy loss which makes me see My happiness is all in thee. —Charles Wesley.

Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half. Who never failed, he never strove or sought. Who never wept is stranger to a laugh And he who never doubted never thought. —J. B. Goode.

I thank thee, Lord, that all my joy Is touched with pain; That shadows fall on brightest hours; That thorns remain; So that earth's bliss may be my guide, And not my chain.

Would'st thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold? Balm would'st thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.

Art thou weary, tender heart? Be glad of pain; In sorrow sweetest things will grow As flowers in rain. God watches; and thou wilt have sun When clouds their perfect work have done. —Lucy Larcom.

'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities Whereon our firm feet planting nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. —James Russell Lowell.

In the pleasant orchard closes, "God bless all our gains," say we; But "May God bless all our losses," Better suits with our degree. —Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

I hold it true, whate'er befall, I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. —Alfred Tennyson.

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, And love is lit by the breath of sighs; The deepest griefs and the wildest fears Have holiest ministries. —Josiah Gilbert Holland.

I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones That men may rise on stepping stones Of their dead selves to higher things. —Alfred Tennyson.

When God afflicts thee, think he hews a rugged stone, Which must be shaped or else aside as useless thrown. —Richard Chenevix Trench.

My sorrows have not been so light Thy chastening hand I could not trace, Nor have my blessings been so great That they have hid my Father's face.

Put pain from out the world, what room were left For thanks to God, for love to man? —Robert Browning.

Heaven is not always angry when he strikes, But most chastises those whom most he likes. —John Pomfret.

The good are better made by ill, As odors crushed are sweeter still. —Samuel Rogers.

Only those are crowned and sainted Who with grief have been acquainted. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.