GOD'S CARE

Lord, according to thy words, I have considered thy birds; And I find their life good, And better, the better understood; Sowing neither corn nor wheat They have all that they can eat; Reaping no more than they sow They have more than they could stow; Having neither barn nor store, Hungry again they eat more. Considering, I see too that they Have a busy life, but plenty of play; In the earth they dig their bills deep, And work well, though they do not heap; Then to play in the way they are not loth, And their nests between are better than both. But this is when there blow no storms, When berries are plenty in winter, and worms, When feathers are rife, with oil enough To keep the cold out and send the rain off; If there come, indeed, a long, hard frost, Then it looks as though thy birds were lost. But I consider further and find A hungry bird has a free mind; He is hungry to-day, but not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till Thou hast made it. The bird has pain, but has no fear— Which is the worst of any gear; When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day's ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot; Neither jumbles God's will With driblets from his own still. But next I see, in my endeavor, The birds here do not live forever; That cold or hunger, sickness or age, Finishes their earthly stage; The rooks drop in cold nights, Leaving all their wrongs and rights; Birds lie here and birds lie there With their feathers all astare; And in thine own sermon, thou That the sparrow falls dost allow. It shall not cause me any alarm, For neither so comes the bird to harm, Seeing our Father, thou hast said, Is by the sparrow's dying bed; Therefore it is a blessèd place, And a sharer in high grace. It cometh therefore to this, Lord: I have considered thy word; And henceforth will be thy bird. —George Macdonald.

I do not know whether my future lies Through calm or storm; Whether the way is strewn with broken ties, Or friendships warm. This much I know: Whate'er the pathway trod, All else unknown, I shall be guided safely on, for God Will keep his own. Clouds may obscure the sky, and drenching rain Wear channels deep; And haggard want, with all her bitter train, Make angels weep. And those I love the best, beneath the sod May sleep alone; But through it all I shall be led, for God Will keep his own. —Sarah Knowles Bolton.

Care Thou for me! Let me not care! Too weak am I, dear Lord, to bear The heavy burdens of the day; And oft I walk with craven feet Upon life's rough and toilsome way; How sweet to feel, how passing sweet, Thy watchful presence everywhere! Care Thou for me! Let me not care! Care Thou for me! Why should I care, And looks of gloomy sadness wear, And fret because I cannot see (Thy wisdom doth ordain it so) The path thou hast marked out for me? My Father's plan is best, I know, It will be light, sometime—somewhere— Care thou for me! Why should I care? Care Thou for me! Let me not care! This, each new day, shall be my prayer; Thou, who canst read my inmost heart, Dost know I am exceeding frail; Both just and merciful thou art, Whose loving kindness ne'er shall fail; My human nature thou wilt spare; Care Thou for me! I will not care!

I am only a little sparrow, A bird of low degree; My life is of little value, But the dear Lord cares for me. He gave me a coat of feathers; It is very plain, I know, With never a speck of crimson, For it was not made for show, But it keeps me warm in winter, And it shields me from the rain; Were it bordered with gold or purple Perhaps it would make me vain. I have no barn or storehouse, I neither sow nor reap; God gives me a sparrow's portion, But never a seed to keep. If my meal is sometimes scanty, Close picking makes it sweet; I have always enough to feed me, And "life is more than meat." I know there are many sparrows, All over the world we are found; But our heavenly Father knoweth When one of us falls to the ground. Though small, we are not forgotten; Though weak we are never afraid; For we know that the dear Lord keepeth The life of the creatures he made.

The twilight falls, the night is near, I fold my work away And kneel to One who bends to hear The story of the day. The old, old story, yet I kneel To tell it at thy call; And cares grow lighter as I feel That Jesus knows them all. Yes, all! The morning and the night, The joy, the grief, the loss, The roughened path, the sunbeam bright, The hourly thorn and cross— Thou knowest all; I lean my head, My weary eyelids close, Content and glad awhile to tread This path, since Jesus knows! And he has loved me! All my heart With answering love is stirred, And every anguished pain and smart Finds healing in the Word. So here I lay me down to rest, As nightly shadows fall, And lean, confiding, on his breast, Who knows and pities all!

If to Jesus for relief My soul has fled by prayer, Why should I give way to grief Or heart-consuming care? While I know his providence Disposes each event Shall I judge by feeble sense, And yield to discontent? Sparrows if he kindly feed, And verdure clothe in rich array. Can he see a child in need, And turn his eyes away?

Nay, nay, do not tell me that God will not hear me. I know he is high over all, Yet I know just as well that he always is near me And never forgets me at all. He shows not his face, for its glory would blind me, Yet I walk on my way unafraid; Though lost in the desert He surely would find me His angels would come to my aid. He sits on his throne in the wonderful city, And I—I am ashes and dust! Yet I am at rest in His wonderful pity, And I in his promises trust. He lighteth the stars, and they shine in their places; He maketh his sun like a flame; But better and brighter to Him are the faces Of mortals that call on his name. Nay, nay! do not tell me that, wrapped in his glory. He hears not my voice when I cry; He made me! He loves me! He knows all my story! I shall look on his face by and by!

O I know the Hand that is guiding me Through the shadow to the light; And I know that all betiding me Is meted out aright. I know that the thorny path I tread Is ruled with a golden line; And I know that the darker life's tangled thread The brighter the rich design. When faints and fails each wilderness hope, And the lamp of faith burns dim, O! I know where to find the honey drop On the bitter chalice brim. For I see, though veiled from my mortal sight, God's plan is all complete; Though the darkness at present be not light, And the bitter be not sweet. I can wait till the dayspring shall overflow The night of pain and care; For I know there's a blessing for every woe, A promise for every prayer. Yes, I feel that the Hand which is holding me Will ever hold me fast; And the strength of the arms that are folding me Will keep me to the last.

As God leads me will I go, Nor choose my way. Let him choose the joy or woe Of every day; They cannot hurt my soul, Because in his control; I leave to him the whole— His children may. As God leads me I am still Within his hand; Though his purpose my self-will Doth oft withstand; Yet I wish that none But his will be done Till the end be won That he hath planned. As God leads I am content; He will take care! All things by his will are sent That I must bear; To him I take my fear, My wishes, while I'm here; The way will all seem clear, When I am there! As God leads me it is mine To follow him; Soon all shall wonderfully shine Which now seems dim. Fulfilled be his decree! What he shall choose for me That shall my portion be, Up to the brim! As God leads me so my heart In faith shall rest. No grief nor fear my soul shall part From Jesus' breast. In sweet belief I know What way my life doth go— Since God permitteth so— That must be best. —L. Gedicke.

There are two words of light divine That fall upon this heart of mine, That thrill me in the hour of gain, That still me in the hour of pain: Two words endued with magic power, Sufficient unto any hour— He knows. As summer breezes, cool and sweet, Bring rest, relief from toil and heat; As showers, needed as they fall, Renew, refresh and comfort all; So to my feverish heart is given This loving message, fresh from heaven: He knows. My fainting heart finds strength in this, My hungry heart here seeks its bliss; Here angry billows never surge, Here death can never sing its dirge; My rising fears, with murmuring fraught, Find sudden calm beneath this thought: He knows. O lullaby for children grown! O nectar sweet for lips that moan! O balm to stricken hearts oppressed! O pillow where worn heads may rest! All joy, all comfort in thee meet, O blessed words, surpassing sweet, He knows.

Don't you trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you. Don't you look for trouble; Let trouble look for you. Don't you borrow sorrow; You'll surely have your share. He who dreams of sorrow Will find that sorrow's there. Don't you hurry worry By worrying lest it come. To flurry is to worry, 'Twill miss you if you're mum. If care you've got to carry Wait till 'tis at the door; For he who runs to meet it Takes up the load before. If minding will not mend it, Then better not to mind; The best thing is to end it— Just leave it all behind. Who feareth hath forsaken The Heavenly Father's side; What he hath undertaken He surely will provide. The very birds reprove thee With all their happy song; The very flowers teach thee That fretting is a wrong. "Cheer up," the sparrow chirpeth, "Thy Father feedeth me; Think how much more he careth, O lonely child, for thee!" "Fear not," the flowers whisper; "Since thus he hath arrayed The buttercup and daisy, How canst thou be afraid?" Then don't you trouble trouble, Till trouble troubles you; You'll only double trouble, And trouble others too.

He leads us on By paths we did not know; Upward he leads us, though our steps be slow, Though oft we faint and falter on the way, Though storms and darkness oft obscure the day, Yet when the clouds are gone We know he leads us on. He leads us on. Through all the unquiet years; Past all our dreamland hopes, and doubts, and fears, He guides our steps. Through all the tangled maze Of sin, of sorrow, and o'erclouded days We know his will is done; And still he leads us on. And he, at last, After the weary strife— After the restless fever we call life— After the dreariness, the aching pain, The wayward struggles which have proved in vain, After our toils are past, Will give us rest at last.

Saint Dominic, the glory of the schools, Writing, one day, "The Inquisition's" rules, Stopt, when the evening came, for want of light. The devils, who below from morn till night, Well pleased, had seen his work, exclaimed with sorrow, "Something he will forget before to-morrow!" One zealous imp flew upward from the place, And stood before him, with an angel face. "I come," said he, "sent from God's Realm of Peace, To light you, lest your holy labors cease." Well pleased, the saint wrote on with careful pen. The candle was consumed; the devil then Lighted his thumb; the saint, quite undisturbed, Finished his treatise to the final word. Then he looked up, and started with affright; For lo! the thumb blazed with a lurid light. "Your thumb is burned!" said he. The child of sin Changed to his proper form, and with a grin Said, "I will quench it in the martyrs' blood Your book will cause to flow—a crimson flood!" Triumphantly the fiend returned to hell And told his story. Satan said, "'Tis well! Your aim was good, but foolish was the deed; For blood of martyrs is the Church's seed." —Herder, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

We all acknowledge both thy power and love To be exact, transcendent, and divine; Who dost so strongly and so sweetly move, While all things have their will, yet none but thine, For either thy command or thy permission Lay hands on all: they are thy right and left: The first puts on with speed and expedition; The other curbs sin's stealing pace and theft. Nothing escapes them both; all must appear And be disposed and dressed and tuned by thee, Who sweetly temperest all. If we could hear Thy skill and art what music would it be! Thou art in small things great, nor small in any; Thy even praise can neither rise nor fall. Thou art in all things one, in each thing many; For thou art infinite in one and all. —George Herbert.

God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take: The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. —William Cowper.

Our yet unfinished story Is tending all to this: To God the greatest glory, To us the greatest bliss. If all things work together For ends so grand and blest, What need to wonder whether Each in itself is best! If some things were omitted, Or altered as we would, The whole might be unfitted To work for perfect good. Our plans may be disjointed, But we may calmly rest; What God has once appointed, Is better than our best. We cannot see before us, But our all-seeing Friend Is always watching o'er us, And knows the very end. What though we seem to stumble? He will not let us fall; And learning to be humble Is not lost time at all. What though we fondly reckoned A smoother way to go Than where his hand hath beckoned? It will be better so. What only seemed a barrier A stepping-stone shall be; Our God is no long tarrier, A present help is he. And when amid our blindness His disappointments fall, We trust his loving-kindness Whose wisdom sends them all; The discord that involveth Some startling change of key, The Master's hand revolveth In richest harmony. Then tremble not, and shrink not, When disappointment nears; Be trustful still, and think not To realize all fears. While we are meekly kneeling We shall behold her rise, Our Father's love revealing, An angel in disguise. —Frances Ridley Havergal.

Not a brooklet floweth Onward to the sea, Not a sunbeam gloweth On its bosom free, Not a seed unfoldeth To the glorious air, But our Father holdeth It within his care. Not a floweret fadeth, Not a star grows dim, Not a cloud o'ershadeth, But 'tis marked by him. Dream not that thy gladness God doth fail to see; Think not in thy sadness He forgetteth thee. Not a tie is broken, Not a hope laid low, Not a farewell spoken, But our God doth know. Every hair is numbered, Every tear is weighed In the changeless balance Wisest Love has made. Power eternal resteth In his changeless hand; Love immortal hasteth Swift at his command, Faith can firmly trust him In the darkest hour, For the keys she holdeth To his love and power.

Among so many can he care? Can special love be everywhere? A myriad homes—a myriad ways— And God's eye over every place? Over; but in? The world is full; A grand omnipotence must rule; But is there life that doth abide With mine own, loving, side by side? So many, and so wide abroad; Can any heart have all of God? From the great spaces vague and dim, May one small household gather him? I asked; my soul bethought of this: In just that very place of his Where he hath put and keepeth you, God hath no other thing to do. —Adeline Dutton Train Whitney.

How gentle God's commands! How kind his precepts are! Come, cast your burdens on the Lord, And trust his constant care. Beneath his watchful eye His saints securely dwell; That hand which bears all nature up Shall guard his children well. Why should this anxious load Press down your weary mind? Haste to your heavenly Father's throne And sweet refreshment find. His goodness stands approved, Unchanged from day to day; I'll drop my burden at his feet, And bear a song away. —Philip Doddridge.

Thou knowest, Lord, the weariness and sorrow Of the sad heart that comes to thee for rest. Cares of to-day and burdens for to-morrow, Blessings implored, and sins to be confest, I come before thee, at thy gracious word, And lay them at thy feet. Thou knowest, Lord! Thou knowest all the past—how long and blindly On the dark mountains the lost wanderer strayed, How the good Shepherd followed, and how kindly He bore it home upon his shoulders laid, And healed the bleeding wounds, and soothed the pain, And brought back life, and hope, and strength again. Thou knowest all the present—each temptation, Each toilsome duty, each foreboding fear; All to myself assigned of tribulation, Or to belovèd ones than self more dear! All pensive memories, as I journey on, Longings for sunshine and for music gone! Thou knowest all the future—gleams of gladness By stormy clouds too quickly overcast— Hours of sweet fellowship and parting sadness, And the dark river to be crossed at last: Oh, what could confidence and hope afford To tread this path, but this—Thou knowest, Lord! Thou knowest not alone as God—all-knowing— As man our mortal weakness thou hast proved On earth; with purest sympathies o'erflowing, O Saviour, thou hast wept, and thou hast loved. And love and sorrow still to thee may come And find a hiding-place, a rest, a home. Therefore I come, thy gentle call obeying, And lay my sins and sorrows at thy feet; On everlasting strength my weakness staying, Clothed in thy robe of righteousness complete. Then rising, and refreshed, I leave thy throne, And follow on to know as I am known!

Men lose their ships, the eager things To try their luck at sea, But none can tell, by note or count, How many there may be. One turneth east, another south— They never come again, And then we know they must have sunk, But neither how nor when. God sends his happy birds abroad— "They're less than ships," say we; No moment passes but he knows How many there should be. One buildeth high, another low, With just a bird's light care— If only one, perchance, doth fall, God knoweth when and where.

If I could only surely know That all these things that tire me so Were noticed by my Lord. The pang that cuts me like a knife, The lesser pains of daily life, The noise, the weariness, the strife, What peace it would afford! I wonder if he really shares In all my little human cares, This mighty King of kings. If he who guides each blazing star Through realms of boundless space afar Without confusion, sound or jar, Stoops to these petty things. It seems to me, if sure of this, Blent with each ill would come such bliss That I might covet pain, And deem whatever brought to me The loving thought of Deity, And sense of Christ's sweet sympathy, No loss, but richest gain. Dear Lord, my heart hath not a doubt That thou dost compass me about With sympathy divine. The love for me once crucified Is not a love to leave my side, But waiteth ever to divide Each smallest care of mine.

Never a trial that He is not there; Never a burden that He doth not bear; Never a sorrow that He doth not share. Moment by moment I'm under his care. Never a heartache, and never a groan, Never a tear-drop, and never a moan, Never a danger but there, on the throne, Moment by moment, He thinks of his own. Never a weakness that He doth not feel; Never a sickness that He cannot heal. Moment by moment, in woe or in weal, Jesus, my Saviour, abides with me still. —Daniel W. Whittle.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends Rough-hew them how we will. —William Shakespeare.

It is the evening hour, And thankfully, Father, thy weary child Has come to thee. I lean my aching head Upon thy breast, And there, and only there, I am at rest. Thou knowest all my life, Each petty sin, Nothing is hid from thee Without, within. All that I have or am Is wholly thine, So is my soul at peace, For thou art mine. To-morrow's dawn may find Me here, or there; It matters little, since thy love Is everywhere!

No care can come where God doth guard; No ill befall whom he doth keep; In safety hid, of trouble rid, I lay me down in peace and sleep. I wholly love thy holy name; I hail with glee thy glorious will; Where'er I go, 'tis joy to know That thou, my King, art near me still. Thy power immense, consummate, grand, Thy wisdom, known to thee alone, Thy perfect love, all thought above, Make me a sharer in thy throne. With thee abiding none can fear, Nor lack, of every good possessed; Thy grace avails, whate'er assails, And I in thee am fully blest. Then leap, my heart, exultant, strong, Cast every doubt and weight away; Give thanks and praise to God always, For he will guide to perfect day! —James Mudge.

What can it mean? Is it aught to him That the nights are long and the days are dim? Can he be touched by griefs I bear Which sadden the heart and whiten the hair? Around his throne are eternal calms, And strong, glad music of happy psalms, And bliss unruffled by any strife. How can he care for my poor life? And yet I want him to care for me While I live in this world where the sorrows be; When the lights die down on the path I take, When strength is feeble, and friends forsake, When love and music, that once did bless, Have left me to silence and loneliness, And life's song changes to sobbing prayers— Then my heart cries out for God who cares. When shadows hang o'er me the whole day long, And my spirit is bowed with shame and wrong; When I am not good, and the deeper shade Of conscious sin makes my heart afraid; And the busy world has too much to do To stay in its course to help me through, And I long for a Saviour—can it be That the God of the Universe cares for me? Oh, wonderful story of deathless love! Each child is dear to that heart above; He fights for me when I cannot fight; He comforts me in the gloom of night; He lifts the burden, for he is strong; He stills the sigh and awakes the song; The sorrow that bowed me down he bears, And loves and pardons because he cares. Let all who are sad take heart again; We are not alone in hours of pain; Our Father stoops from his throne above To soothe and quiet us with his love. He leaves us not when the storm is high, And we have safety, for he is nigh. Can it be trouble which he doth share? O rest in peace, for the Lord does care.

Thou who art touched with feeling of our woes, Let me on thee my heavy burden cast! My aching, anguished heart on thee repose. Leaving with thee the sad mysterious past; Let me submissive bow and kiss the rod; Let me "be still, and know that thou art God." Why should my harassed agitated mind Go round and round this terrible event? Striving in vain some brighter side to find, Some cause why all this anguish has been sent? Do I indeed that sacred truth believe— Thou dost not willingly afflict and grieve? My lovely gourd is withered in an hour! I droop, I faint beneath the scorching sun; My Shepherd, lead me to some sheltering bower; There where thy little flock "lie down at noon"; Though of my dearest earthly joy bereft Thou art my portion still; thou, thou, my God, art left. —Charlotte Elliott.

Says God: "Who comes towards me an inch through doubtings dim, In blazing light I do approach a yard towards him."

—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

The light of love is round His feet, His paths are never dim; And He comes nigh to us, when we Dare not come nigh to Him. —Frederick William Faber.

Not in our waking hours alone His constancy and care are known, But locked in slumber fast and deep He giveth to us while we sleep. —Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

God holds the key of all unknown, And I am glad. If other hands should hold the key, Or if he trusted it to me, I might be sad. What if to-morrow's cares were here Without its rest? I'd rather he unlock the day, And as the hours swing open say, "Thy will be best." The very dimness of my sight Makes me secure; For groping in my misty way, I feel his hand; I hear him say, "My help is sure." I cannot read his future plan, But this I know: I have the smiling of his face, And all the refuge of his grace, While here below. Enough; this covers all my want, And so I rest; For what I cannot he can see, And in his care I sure shall be Forever blest. —John Parker.

Forever, from the hand that takes One blessing from us, others fall; And soon or late our Father makes His perfect recompense to all. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Nothing pays but God, Served—in work obscure done honestly, Or vote for truth unpopular, or faith maintained To ruinous convictions. —James Russell Lowell.

He did God's will, to him all one, If on the earth or in the sun. —Robert Browning.

I am Part of that Power, not understood, Which always wills the bad And always works the good. (Mephistopheles, in Faust.) —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

I have no answer, for myself or thee, Save that I learned beside my mother's knee: "All is of God that is, and is to be; And God is good." Let this suffice us still, Resting in childlike trust upon his will Who moves to his great ends unthwarted by the ill. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

He knows, he loves, he cares, Nothing his truth can dim; He gives his very best to those Who leave the choice to him.

No help! nay, it is not so! Though human help be far, thy God is nigh. Who feeds the ravens hears his children's cry; He's near thee wheresoe'er thy footsteps roam, And he will guide thee, light thee, help thee home.

God sees me though I see him not; I know I shall not be forgot; For though I be the smallest dot, It is his mercy shapes my lot. —From the Scandinavian, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

Teach me to answer still, Whate'er my lot may be, To all thou sendest me, of good or ill, "All goeth as God will."

Dance, O my soul! 'tis God doth play; His will makes music all the day; That song which rings the world around This heart of mine shall ever sound. —James Mudge.

Let one more attest: I have seen God's hand through a life time, And all was for best. —Robert Browning.