GOD'S WILL

I worship thee, sweet will of God! And all thy ways adore. And every day I live I seem To love thee more and more. Thou wert the end, the blessed rule Of our Saviour's toils and tears; Thou wert the passion of his heart Those three and thirty years. And he hath breathed into my soul A special love of thee, A love to lose my will in his, And by that loss be free. I love to kiss each print where thou Hast set thine unseen feet; I cannot fear thee, blessed will! Thine empire is so sweet. When obstacles and trials seem Like prison walls to be, I do the little I can do, And leave the rest to thee. I know not what it is to doubt; My heart is ever gay; I run no risk, for come what will Thou always hast thy way. I have no cares, O blessed will! For all my cares are thine; I live in triumph, Lord, for thou Hast made thy triumphs mine. And when it seems no chance or change From grief can set me free, Hope finds its strength in helplessness, And gayly waits on thee. Man's weakness waiting upon God Its end can never miss, For man on earth no work can do More angel-like than this. Ride on, ride on triumphantly, Thou glorious Will! ride on; Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take The road that thou hast gone. He always wins who sides with God, To him no chance is lost; God's will is sweetest to him when It triumphs at his cost. Ill that he blesses is our good, And unblest good is ill; And all is right that seems most wrong If it be his sweet will! —Frederick William Faber.

Thy will, O God, is joy to me, A gladsome thing; For in it naught but love I see, Whate'er it bring. No bed of pain, no rack of woe— Thy will is good; A glory wheresoe'er I go, My daily food. Within the circle of thy will All things abide; So I, exulting, find no ill Where thou dost guide. In that resplendent will of thine I calmly rest; Triumphantly I make it mine, And count it best. To doubt and gloom and care and fear I yield no jot; Thy choice I choose, with soul sincere, Thrice happy lot! In all the small events that fall From day to day I mark thy hand, I hear thy call, And swift obey. I walk by faith, not sense or sight; Calm faith in thee; My peace endures, my way is bright, My heart is free. Unfaltering trust, complete content, The days ensphere, Each meal becomes a sacrament, And heaven is here. —James Mudge.

The wind that blows can never kill The tree God plants; It bloweth east, it bloweth west, The tender leaves have little rest, But any wind that blows is best; The tree God plants Strikes deeper root, grows higher still, Spreads wider boughs, for God's good will Meets all its wants. There is no frost hath power to blight The tree God shields; The roots are warm beneath soft snows, And when Spring comes it surely knows, And every bud to blossom grows. The tree God shields Grows on apace by day and night, Till sweet to taste and fair to sight Its fruit it yields. There is no storm hath power to blast The tree God knows; No thunderbolt, nor beating rain, Nor lightning flash, nor hurricane— When they are spent it doth remain. The tree God knows Through every tempest standeth fast, And from its first day to its last Still fairer grows. If in the soul's still garden-place A seed God sows— A little seed—it soon will grow, And far and near all men will know For heavenly lands he bids it blow. A seed God sows, And up it springs by day and night; Through life, through death, it groweth right; Forever grows. —Lillian E. Barr.

Take thine own way with me, dear Lord, Thou canst not otherwise than bless. I launch me forth upon a sea Of boundless love and tenderness. I could not choose a larger bliss Than to be wholly thine; and mine A will whose highest joy is this, To ceaselessly unclasp in thine. I will not fear thee, O my God! The days to come can only bring Their perfect sequences of love, Thy larger, deeper comforting. Within the shadow of this love, Loss doth transmute itself to gain; Faith veils earth's sorrow in its light, And straightway lives above her pain. We are not losers thus; we share The perfect gladness of the Son, Not conquered—for, behold, we reign; Conquered and Conqueror are one. Thy wonderful, grand will, my God, Triumphantly I make it mine; And faith shall breathe her glad "Amen" To every dear command of thine. Beneath the splendor of thy choice, Thy perfect choice for me, I rest; Outside it now I dare not live, Within it I must needs be blest. Meanwhile my spirit anchors calm In grander regions still than this; The fair, far-shining latitudes Of that yet unexplorèd bliss. Then may thy perfect glorious will Be evermore fulfilled in me, And make my life an answering chord Of glad, responsive harmony. Oh! it is life indeed to live Within this kingdom strangely sweet; And yet we fear to enter in, And linger with unwilling feet. We fear this wondrous will of thine Because we have not reached thy heart. Not venturing our all on thee We may not know how good thou art. —Jean Sophia Pigott.

Deep at the heart of all our pain, In loss as surely as in gain, His love abideth still. Let come what will my heart shall stand On this firm rock at his right hand, "Father, it is thy will." —John White Chadwick.

O Lord! at Joseph's humble bench Thy hands did handle saw and plane, Thy hammer nails did drive and clench, Avoiding knot, and humoring grain. That thou didst seem thou wast indeed, In sport thy tools thou didst not use, Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need, The laborer's hire too nice refuse. Lord! might I be but as a saw, A plane, a chisel in thy hand! No, Lord! I take it back in awe, Such prayer for me is far too grand. I pray, O Master! let me lie, As on thy bench the favored wood; Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply, And work me into something good. No! no! Ambition holy, high, Urges for more than both to pray; Come in, O gracious force, I cry, O Workman! share my shed of clay. Then I at bench, or desk, or oar, With last, or needle, net, or pen, As thou in Nazareth of yore, Shall do the Father's will again. —George Macdonald.

The Lord our God is clothed with might, The winds obey his will; He speaks, and in his heavenly height The rolling sun stands still. Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land With threatening aspect roar; The Lord uplifts his awful hand, And chains you to the shore. Ye winds of night, your force combine; Without his high behest, Ye shall not, in the mountain pine, Disturb the sparrow's nest. His voice sublime is heard afar; In distant peals it dies; He yokes the whirlwind to his car And sweeps the howling skies. Ye sons of earth, in reverence bend; Ye nations, wait his nod; And bid the choral song ascend To celebrate our God. —H. Kirke White.

Thou sweet, beloved will of God, My anchor ground, my fortress hill, My spirit's silent, fair abode, In thee I hide me and am still. O Will, that willest good alone, Lead thou the way, thou guidest best; A little child, I follow on, And, trusting, lean upon thy breast. Thy beautiful sweet will, my God, Holds fast in its sublime embrace My captive will, a gladsome bird, Prisoned in such a realm of grace. Within this place of certain good Love evermore expands her wings, Or, nestling in thy perfect choice, Abides content with what it brings. Oh lightest burden, sweetest yoke! It lifts, it bears my happy soul, It giveth wings to this poor heart; My freedom is thy grand control. Upon God's will I lay me down, As child upon its mother's breast; No silken couch, nor softest bed, Could ever give me such deep rest. Thy wonderful grand will, my God, With triumph now I make it mine; And faith shall cry a joyous Yes! To every dear command of thine.

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare! The spray of the tempest is white in air; The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb; And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, And I shall not join in the chase to-day. But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was builded upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake's shock. —Francis Bret Harte.

Let me not die before I've done for thee My earthly work, whatever it may be; Call me not hence with mission unfulfilled; Let me not leave my space of ground untilled; Impress this truth upon me, that not one Can do my portion that I leave undone. Then give me strength all faithfully to toil, Converting barren earth to fruitful soil. I long to be an instrument of thine For gathering worshipers into thy shrine: To be the means one human soul to save From the dark terrors of a hopeless grave. Yet most I want a spirit of content To work where'er thou'lt wish my labor spent, Whether at home or in a stranger's clime, In days of joy or sorrow's sterner time; I want a spirit passive to be still, And by thy power to do thy holy will. And when the prayer unto my lips doth rise, "Before a new home doth my soul surprise, Let me accomplish some great work for thee," Subdue it, Lord; let my petition be, "O make me useful in this world of thine, In ways according to thy will, not mine."

My Jesus, as thou wilt: O may thy will be mine; Into thy hand of love I would my all resign. Through sorrow or through joy Conduct me as thine own, And help me still to say, "My Lord, thy will be done." My Jesus, as thou wilt: If needy here, and poor, Give me thy people's bread, Their portion rich and sure. The manna of thy word Let my soul feed upon; And if all else should fail— My Lord, thy will be done. My Jesus, as thou wilt: If among thorns I go, Still sometimes here and there Let a few roses blow. But thou on earth along The thorny path hast gone; Then lead me after thee. My Lord, thy will be done! My Jesus, as thou wilt: Though seen through many a tear, Let not my star of hope Grow dim or disappear. Since thou on earth hast wept And sorrowed oft alone, If I must weep with thee, My Lord, thy will be done. My Jesus, as thou wilt: If loved ones must depart Suffer not sorrow's flood To overwhelm my heart. For they are blest with thee, Their race and conflict won; Let me but follow them. My Lord, thy will be done! My Jesus, as thou wilt: When death itself draws nigh, To thy dear wounded side I would for refuge fly. Leaning on thee, to go Where thou before hast gone; The rest as thou shalt please. My Lord, thy will be done! My Jesus, as thou wilt: All shall be well for me; Each changing future scene I gladly trust with thee. Straight to my home above, I travel calmly on, And sing in life or death, "My Lord, thy will be done." —Benjamin Schmolke, tr. by J. Borthwick.

There is no great nor small in Nature's plan, Bulk is but fancy in the mind of man; A raindrop is as wondrous as a star, Near is not nearest, farthest is not far; And suns and planets in the vast serene Are lost as midges in the summer sheen, Born in their season; and we live and die Creatures of Time, lost in Eternity. —Charles Mackay.

My God, my Father, while I stray Far from my home, on life's rough way, O teach me from my heart to say, "Thy will be done!" Though dark my path, and sad my lot, Let me "be still," and murmur not; O breathe the prayer divinely taught, "Thy will be done!" What though in lonely grief I sigh For friends beloved, no longer nigh, Submissive still would I reply "Thy will be done!" Though thou hast called me to resign What most I prized, it ne'er was mine; I have but yielded what was thine; "Thy will be done!" Should grief or sickness waste away My life in premature decay; My Father! still I strive to say, "Thy will be done!" Let but my fainting heart be blest With thy sweet Spirit for its guest; My God! to thee I leave the rest: "Thy will be done!" Renew my will from day to day! Blend it with thine; and take away All that now makes it hard to say, "Thy will be done!" Then, when on earth I breathe no more The prayer oft mixed with tears before, I'll sing upon a happier shore: "Thy will be done!" —Charlotte Elliott.

All is of God! If he but wave his hand, The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door? —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I cannot say, Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day, I joy in these; But I can say That I had rather walk this rugged way, If Him it please. I cannot feel That all is well when darkening clouds conceal The shining sun; But then I know God lives and loves, and say, since it is so, Thy will be done. I cannot speak In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek Show I am sad: But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek Until made glad. I do not see Why God should e'en permit some things to be, When He is love; But I can see, Though often dimly, through the mystery His hand above! I do not know Where falls the seed that I have tried to sow With greatest care; But I shall know The meaning of each waiting hour below Sometime, somewhere! I do not look Upon the present, nor in Nature's book, To read my fate; But I do look For promised blessings in God's holy Book; And I can wait. I may not try To keep the hot tears back—but hush that sigh, "It might have been"; And try to still Each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will Respond "Amen!" —Miss Ophelia G. Browning.

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Alike they're needful for the flower; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment. As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done. Can loving children e'er reprove, With murmurs, whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done. O ne'er will I at life repine— Enough that thou hast made it mine; When falls the shadow cold of death I yet will sing with parting breath, As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done. —Sarah Flower Adams.

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through, What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise, and move, and love, and smile, and pray For one more day.

And lying down at night, for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which harkens ever, "Lord, within thy keeping, How should I fear? And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, Do thou thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All night long; and when the morning splendor Flashed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile—could calmly say, "It is his day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clew— What should I do?

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master! Other than this, Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by thee?

Step by step, feeling thee close beside me, Although unseen; Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee Or heavens serene, Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay.

I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth Thy counsels wise; Along the path no deepening shadow stealeth; No voice replies To all my questioning thought the time to tell, And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always; Through a long century's ripe fruition Or a short day's; Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait If thou come late!

—Susan Coolidge.

God's in his heaven, All's right with the world. —Robert Browning.

What pleaseth God with joy receive; Though storm-winds rage and billows heave And earth's foundations all be rent, Be comforted; to thee is sent What pleaseth God. God's will is best; to this resigned, How sweetly rests the weary mind! Seek, then, this blessed conformity, Desiring but to do and be What pleaseth God. God's thoughts are wisest; human schemes Are vain delusions, idle dreams; Our purposes are frail and weak; With earthly mind we seldom seek What pleaseth God. God is the holiest; and his ways Are full of kindness, truth, and grace; His blessing crowns our earnest prayer, While worldlings scorn, and little care What pleaseth God. God's is the truest heart; his love Nor time, nor life, nor death, can move; To those his mercies daily flow, Whose chief concern it is to know What pleaseth God. Omnipotent he reigns on high And watcheth o'er thy destiny; While sea, and earth, and air produce For daily pleasure, daily use, What pleaseth God. He loves his sheep, and when they stray He leads them back to wisdom's way; Their faithless, wandering hearts to turn, Gently chastising, till they learn What pleaseth God. He knows our every need, and grants A rich supply to all our wants; No good withholds from those whose mind Is bent with earnest zeal to find What pleaseth God. Then let the world, with stubborn will, Its earthborn pleasures follow still; Be this, my soul, thy constant aim, Thy riches, honor, glory, fame, What pleaseth God. Should care and grief thy portion be, To thy strong refuge ever flee; For all his creatures but perform, In peace and tumult, calm and storm, What pleaseth God. Faith lays her hand on God's rich grace, And hope gives patience for the race; These virtues in thy heart enshrined, Thy portion thou wilt surely find, What pleaseth God. In heaven thy glorious portion is; There is thy throne, thy crown, thy bliss; There shalt thou taste, and hear, and see, There shalt thou ever do and be, What pleaseth God. —Paul Gerhardt.

O words of golden music Caught from the harps on high, Which find a glorious anthem Where we have found a sigh, And peal their grandest praises Just where ours faint and die. O words of holy radiance Shining on every tear Till it becomes a rainbow, Reflecting, bright and clear, Our Father's love and glory So wonderful, so dear! O words of sparkling power, Of insight full and deep! Shall they not enter other hearts In a grand and gladsome sweep, And lift the lives to songs of joy That only droop and weep? And O, it is a splendor, A glow of majesty, A mystery of beauty, If we will only see; A very cloud of glory Enfolding you and me. A splendor that is lighted At one transcendent flame, The wondrous love, the perfect love, Our Father's sweetest name; For his very name and essence And his will are all the same. —Frances Ridley Havergal.

No chance has brought this ill to me; 'Tis God's sweet will, so let it be; He seeth what I cannot see. There is a need-be for each pain, And he will make it one day plain That earthly loss is heavenly gain. Like as a piece of tapestry, Viewed from the back, appears to be Naught but threads tangled hopelessly, But in the front a picture fair Rewards the worker for his care, Proving his skill and patience rare. Thou art the workman, I the frame; Lord, for the glory of thy name, Perfect thine image on the same!

Whate'er God wills let that be done; His will is ever wisest; His grace will all thy hope outrun Who to that faith arisest. The gracious Lord Will help afford; He chastens with forbearing; Who God believes, And to him cleaves, Shall not be left despairing. My God is my sure confidence, My light, and my existence; His counsel is beyond my sense, But stirs no weak resistance; His word declares The very hairs Upon my head are numbered; His mercy large Holds me in charge With care that never slumbered. There comes a day when at his will The pulse of nature ceases. I think upon it, and am still, Let come whate'er he pleases. To him I trust My soul, my dust, When flesh and spirit sever; The Christ we sing Has plucked the sting Away from death forever. —Albert of Brandenburg, 1586.

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 prayers 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, Whose 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 Its dark relief of sacrifice. Thy will be done! And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press; If from thy ordeal's heated bars Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, Thy will be done! If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, And, blest by thee, our present pain Be liberty's eternal gain, 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 Greenleaf Whittier.

There is no sense, as I can see, In mortals such as you and me A-faulting nature's wise intents And locking horns with Providence.

It is no use to grumble and complain; It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice; When God sorts out the weather and sends rain— Why, rain's my choice. —James Whitcomb Riley.

Not in dumb resignation We lift our hands on high; Not like the nerveless fatalist, Content to do and die. Our faith springs like the eagle Who soars to meet the sun, And cries, exulting, unto thee, "O Lord, thy will be done!" Thy will! It bids the weak be strong; It bids the strong be just; No lip to fawn, no hand to beg, No brow to seek the dust. Wherever man oppresses man, Beneath the liberal sun, O Lord, be there! Thine arm make bare! Thy righteous will be done! —John Hay.

All goeth but God's will! The fairest garden flower Fades after its brief hour Of brightness. Still, This is but God's good will. All goeth but God's will! The brightest, dearest day Doth swiftly pass away, And darkest night Succeeds the vision bright. But still strong-hearted be, Yea, though the night be drear; How sad and long soe'er Its gloom may be, This darkness, too, shall flee. Weep not yon grave beside! Dear friend, he is not gone; God's angel soon this stone Shall roll aside. Yea, death shall not abide! Earth's anguish, too, shall go, O then be strong, my soul! When sorrows o'er thee roll Be still, and know 'Tis God's will worketh so. Dear Lord and God, incline Thine ear unto my call! O grant me that in all, This will of mine May still be one with thine! 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." —Alice Williams.

Sweet is the solace of thy love, My heavenly Friend, to me, While through the hidden way of faith I journey home with thee, Learning by quiet thankfulness As a dear child to be. Though from the shadow of thy peace My feet would often stray, Thy mercy follows all my steps, And will not turn away; Yea, thou wilt comfort me at last As none beneath thee may. No other comforter I need If thou, O Lord, be mine; Thy rod will bring my spirit low, Thy fire my heart refine, And cause me pain that none may feel By other love than thine. Then in the secret of my soul, Though hosts my peace invade, Though through a waste and weary land My lonely way be made, Thou, even thou, wilt comfort me; I need not be afraid. O there is nothing in the world To weigh against thy will; Even the dark times I dread the most Thy covenant fulfill; And when the pleasant morning dawns I find thee with me still. Still in the solitary place I would awhile abide. Till with the solace of thy love My soul is satisfied, And all my hopes of happiness Stay calmly at thy side. On thy compassion I repose In weakness and distress; I will not ask for greater ease Lest I should love thee less, It is a blessed thing for me To need thy tenderness. —Anna Letitia Waring.

There was of old a Moslem saint Named Rabia. On her bed she lay Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint. "Send for the holy men to pray." And two were sent. The first drew near: "The prayers of no man are sincere Who does not bow beneath the rod, And bear the chastening strokes of God." Whereto the second, more severe: "The prayers of no man are sincere Who does not in the rod rejoice And make the strokes he bears his choice." Then she, who felt that in such pain The love of self did still remain, Answered, "No prayers can be sincere When they from whose wrung hearts they fall Are not as I am, lying here, Who long since have forgotten all. Dear Lord of love! There is no pain." So Rabia, and was well again. —Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Rabia, sick upon her bed, By two saints was visited: Holy Malik, Hassan wise, Men of mark in Moslem eyes. Hassan said: "Whose prayer is pure Will God's chastisement endure." Malik, from a deeper sense, Uttered his experience: "He who loves his Master's choice Will in chastisement rejoice." Rabia saw some selfish will In their maxims lingering still, And replied: "O men of grace! He who sees his Master's face "Will not in his prayer recall That he is chastised at all." —Arabian, tr. by James Freeman Clarke, from the German of Tholuck.

Round holy Rabia's suffering bed The wise men gathered, gazing gravely. "Daughter of God!" the youngest said, "Endure thy Father's chastening bravely; They who have steeped their souls in prayer Can any anguish calmly bear." She answered not, and turned aside, Though not reproachfully nor sadly. "Daughter of God!" the eldest cried, "Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly; They who have learned to pray aright From pain's dark well draw up delight." Then spake she out: "Your words are fair; But, oh, the truth lies deeper still. I know not, when absorbed in prayer, Pleasure or pain, or good or ill. They who God's face can understand Feel not the workings of his hand." —Monckton Milnes.

I love thy will, O God! Thy blessèd, perfect will, In which this once rebellious heart Lies satisfied and still. I love thy will, O God! It is my joy, my rest; It glorifies my common task, It makes each trial blest. I love thy will, O God! The sunshine or the rain; Some days are bright with praise, and some Sweet with accepted pain. I love thy will, O God! O hear my earnest plea, That as thy will is done in heaven It may be done in me! —Bessie Pegg MacLaughlin.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

—Tr. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I pray, with meek hands on my breast, "Thy will be done, thy kingdom come," But shouldst thou call my dear ones home Should I still say, "'Tis best; Thy will be done"? I cannot tell. I probe my heart With sharpest instruments of pain, And listen if the sweet refrain Still wells up through the smart— "Thy will be done!" I cannot tell. I yield the quest, Content if only day by day My God shall give me grace to say, "Father, thou knowest best; Thy will be done!" He gives no strength for coming ill, Until its advent. Then he rolls His love in on his waiting souls, Sure of their sweet "Thy will, Thy will be done!" "Give us this day our daily bread"— So prayed the Christ, and so will I; Father, my daily bread supply, Or, if I go unfed, "Thy will be done!" —Caroline Atherton Mason.

When thou turnest away from ill Christ is this side of thy hill. When thou turnest towards good Christ is walking in thy wood. When thy heart says, "Father, pardon!" Then the Lord is in thy garden. When stern duty wakes to watch Then his hand is on the latch. But when hope thy song doth rouse Then the Lord is in the house. When to love is all thy wit Christ doth at thy table sit. When God's will is thy heart's pole Then is Christ thy very soul. —George Macdonald.

But that thou art my wisdom, Lord, And both mine eyes are thine. My mind would be extremely stirred For missing my design. Were it not better to bestow Some place and power on me? Then should thy praises with me grow, And share in my degree. But when I thus dispute and grieve I do resume my sight; And, pilfering what I once did give, Disseize thee of thy right. How know I, if thou shouldst me raise. That I should then raise thee? Perhaps great places and thy praise Do not so well agree. Wherefore unto my gift I stand; I will no more advise; Only do thou lend me a hand, Since thou hast both mine eyes. —George Herbert.

Beware, exulting youth, beware, When life's young pleasures woo, That ere you yield yon shrine your heart, And keep your conscience true! For sake of silver spent to-day Why pledge to-morrow's gold? Or in hot blood implant remorse, To grow when blood is cold? If wrong you do, if false you play, In summer among the flowers, You must atone, you must repay, In winter among the showers. To turn the balances of heaven Surpasses mortal power; For every white there is a black, For every sweet a sour. For every up there is a down, For every folly shame, And retribution follows guilt As burning follows flame. If wrong you do, if false you play, In summer among the flowers, You must atone, you must repay In winter among the showers. —George Macdonald.

I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, Thy fields, thy mountains hoar, Thy wind that bloweth where it lists; Thy will, I love it more. I love thy hidden truth to seek All round, in sea, on shore; The arts whereby like gods we speak; Thy will to me is more. I love thy men and women, Lord, The children round thy door, Calm thoughts that inward strength afford; Thy will, O Lord, is more. But when thy will my life shall hold, Thine to the very core, The world which that same will did mold I shall love ten times more. —George Macdonald.

No child of man may perish ere his time arrives; A thousand arrows pierce him and he still survives; But when the moment fixed in heaven's eternal will Comes round, a single blade of yielding grass may kill. —From the Mahabharata, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

God gives to man the power to strike or miss you; It is not thy foe who did the thing. The arrow from the bow may seem to issue, But we know an archer drew the string. —Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

On two days it steads not to run from thy grave: The appointed and the unappointed day; On the first neither balm nor physician can save, Nor thee on the second the universe slay. —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I do not know thy final will, It is too good for me to know. Thou willest that I mercy show, That I take heed and do no ill, That I the needy warm and fill, Nor stones at any sinner throw; But I know not thy final will, It is too good for me to know. I know thy love unspeakable— For love's sake able to send woe! To find thine own thou lost didst go, And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill! How should I know thy final will, Godwise too good for me to know! —George Macdonald.

One prayer I have—all prayers in one— When I am wholly thine: Thy will, my God, thy will be done, And let that will be mine; All-wise, almighty, and all-good, In thee I firmly trust, Thy ways, unknown or understood, Are merciful and just.

Fear him, ye saints, and you will then Have nothing else to fear; Make you his service your delight, He'll make your wants his care.

The best will is our Father's will, And we may rest there calm and still; O make it hour by hour thine own, And wish for naught but that alone Which pleases God. —Paul Gerhardt.

It is Lucifer, The son of mystery; And since God suffers him to be He, too, is God's minister, And labors for some good By us not understood! —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Rabbi Jehosha had the skill To know that heaven is in God's will. —James Russell Lowell.