PRAYER

Father of all! in every age, In ev'ry clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! Thou great First Cause, least understood, Who all my sense confined To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind: Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives— T' enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound; Or think thee Lord alone of man When thousand worlds are round; Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe. If I am right, thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O teach my heart To find that better way. Save me alike from foolish pride Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has denied Or aught thy wisdom lent. Teach me to feel another's woe; To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. Mean though I am, not wholly so Since quicken'd by thy breath; O lead me wheresoe'er I go, Through this day's life or death. This day be bread and peace my lot: All else beneath the sun Thou know'st if best bestowed or not; And let thy will be done. To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar earth, sea, skies! One chorus let all Being raise, All Nature's incense rise! —Alexander Pope.

My God, is any hour so sweet, From blush of morn to evening star, As that which calls me to thy feet: The hour of prayer? Blest is that tranquil hour of morn, And blest that solemn hour of eve, When, on the wings of prayer upborne, The world I leave. Then is my strength by thee renewed; Then are my sins by thee forgiven; Then dost thou cheer my solitude With hopes of heaven. No words can tell what sweet relief Here for my every want I find; What strength for warfare, balm for grief, What peace of mind. Hushed is each doubt, gone every fear; My spirit seems in heaven to stay; And e'en the penitential tear Is wiped away. Lord, till I reach that blissful shore, No privilege so dear shall be As thus my inmost soul to pour In prayer to thee. —Charlotte Elliott.

Be not afraid to pray—to pray is right. Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever pray, Though hope be weak or sick with long delay; Pray in the darkness if there be no light. Far is the time, remote from human sight, When war and discord on the earth shall cease; Yet every prayer for universal peace Avails the blessed time to expedite. Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of heaven, Though it be what thou canst not hope to see. Pray to be perfect, though material leaven Forbid the spirit so on earth to be; But if for any wish thou darest not pray, Then pray to God to cast that wish away. —Hartley Coleridge.

Unanswered yet the prayer your lips have pleaded In agony of heart these many years? Does faith begin to fail? Is hope departing? And think you all in vain those falling tears? Say not the Father hath not heard your prayer; You shall have your desire sometime, somewhere. Unanswered yet?—though when you first presented This one petition at the Father's throne It seemed you could not wait the time of asking, So urgent was your heart to make it known! Though years have passed since then, do not despair; The Lord will answer you sometime, somewhere. Unanswered yet? Nay, do not say ungranted; Perhaps your work is not yet wholly done. The work began when first your prayer was uttered, And God will finish what he has begun. If you will keep the incense burning there His glory you shall see sometime, somewhere. Unanswered yet? Faith cannot be unanswered, Her feet were firmly planted on the Rock; Amid the wildest storms she stands undaunted, Nor quails before the loudest thunder shock. She knows Omnipotence has heard her prayer, And cries, "It shall be done"—sometime, somewhere. —Miss Ophelia G. Browning.

Lord, I have shut my door— Shut out life's busy cares and fretting noise, Here in this silence they intrude no more. Speak thou, and heavenly joys Shall fill my heart with music sweet and calm— A holy psalm. Yes, I have shut my door, Even on all the beauty of thine earth— To its blue ceiling, from its emerald floor, Filled with spring's bloom and mirth; From these, thy works, I turn; thyself I seek; To thee I speak. And I have shut my door On earthly passion—all its yearning love, Its tender friendships, all the priceless store Of human ties. Above All these my heart aspires, O Heart divine! Stoop thou to mine. Lord, I have shut my door! Come thou and visit me: I am alone! Come as when doors were shut thou cam'st of yore And visited thine own. My Lord, I kneel with reverence, love, and fear, For thou art here. —Mary Ellen Atkinson.

The homely words—how often read! How seldom fully known: "Which father of you, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?" How oft has bitter tear been shed, And heaved how many a groan, Because thou wouldst not give for bread The thing that was a stone! How oft the child thou wouldst have fed Thy gift away has thrown; He prayed, thou heardst, and gavest bread— He cried, "It is a stone!" Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread, Lest I be left to moan, Am I not he, who, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone? —George Macdonald.

I want so many, many things, My wishes on my prayers take wings, And heavenward fly to sue for grace Before the loving Father's face. But He, well knowing all my need, Kindly rebukes my foolish greed, And, granting not the gift I ask, Sets me instead to do some task— Some lowly task—for love of him, So lowly, and in light so dim, My sorrowing soul must cease to sing, And only sigh, "'Tis for the King." And scarcely can my faith repeat Her sad petition at his feet: "These daily tasks Thou giv'st to me, Help, Lord, to do as unto thee!" Yet while his bidding thus I do— I know not how, or why, 'tis true— My thoughts to sweet contentment glide, And I forget the wish denied. And so my prayers he hears and heeds, Mindful of all my daily needs; Gracious, most gracious, too, in this— Denying, when I ask amiss. —Luella Clark.

If when I kneel to pray, With eager lips I say: "Lord, give me all the things that I desire— Health, wealth, fame, friends, brave heart, religious fire, The power to sway my fellow men at will, And strength for mighty works to banish ill"— In such a prayer as this The blessing I must miss. Or if I only dare To raise this fainting prayer: "Thou seest, Lord, that I am poor and weak, And cannot tell what things I ought to seek; I therefore do not ask at all, but still I trust thy bounty all my wants to fill"— My lips shall thus grow dumb, The blessing shall not come. But if I lowly fall, And thus in faith I call: "Through Christ, O Lord, I pray thee give to me Not what I would, but what seems best to thee Of life, of health, of service, and of strength, Until to thy full joy I come at length"— My prayer shall then avail; The blessing shall not fail. —Charles F. Richardson.

Teach me, dear Lord, what thou wouldst have me know; Guide me, dear Lord, where thou wouldst have me go; Help me, dear Lord, the precious seed to sow; Bless thou the seed that it may surely grow.

When is the time for prayer? With the first beams that light the morning sky, Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare, Lift up thy thoughts on high; Commend thy loved ones to his watchful care: Morn is the time for prayer! And in the noontide hour, If worn by toil or by sad care oppressed, Then unto God thy spirit's sorrows pour, And he will give thee rest: Thy voice shall reach him through the fields of air: Noon is the time for prayer! When the bright sun hath set, Whilst yet eve's glowing colors deck the skies, When with the loved, at home, again thou'st met, Then let thy prayers arise For those who in thy joys and sorrows share: Eve is the time for prayer! And when the stars come forth— When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth To pure bright dreams of heaven— Kneel to thy God; ask strength life's ills to bear: Night is the time for prayer. When is the time for prayer? In every hour, while life is spared to thee— In crowds or solitude—in joy or care— Thy thoughts should heavenward flee. At home—at morn and eve—with loved ones there, Bend thou the knee in prayer!

Not a sound invades the stillness, Not a form invades the scene, Save the voice of my Belovèd, And the person of my King. And within those heavenly places, Calmly hushed in sweet repose, There I drink, with joy absorbing, All the love thou wouldst disclose. Wrapt in deep adoring silence, Jesus, Lord, I dare not move, Lest I lose the smallest saying Meant to catch the ear of love. Rest, then, O my soul, contented: Thou hast reached thy happy place In the bosom of thy Saviour, Gazing up in his dear face.

I often say my prayers, But do I ever pray; And do the wishes of my heart Go with the words I say? I may as well kneel down And worship gods of stone, As offer to the living God A prayer of words alone. For words without the heart The Lord will never hear: Nor will he to those lips attend Whose prayers are not sincere. —John Burton.

What various hindrances we meet In coming to a mercy-seat! Yet who that knows the worth of prayer But wishes to be often there! Prayer makes the darkened cloud withdraw; Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw; Gives exercise to faith and love; Brings every blessing from above. Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer keeps the Christian's armor bright; And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees. Were half the breath that's vainly spent To heaven in supplication sent, Our cheerful song would oftener be "Hear what the Lord has done for me." —William Cowper.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed; The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice And cry, "Behold, he prays!" Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air, His watchword at the gates of death; He enters heaven with prayer. O Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way; The path of prayer thyself hast trod: Lord, teach us how to pray! —James Montgomery.

The woman singeth at her spinning wheel A pleasant chant, ballad, or baracolle; She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel, With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian Church, that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk Thus, swift and steadfast; thus, intent and strong; While, thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune and prove our work The better for the sweetness of our song. —Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

The deed ye do is the prayer ye pray; "Lead us into temptation, Lord; Withhold the bread from our babes this day; To evil we turn us, give evil's reward!" Over to-day the to-morrow bends With an answer for each acted prayer; And woe to him who makes not friends With the pale hereafter hovering there. —George S. Burleigh.

Not a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould, Where I must creep and in the dark and cold Offer some awful incense at a shrine That hath no more divine Than that 'tis far from life, and stern, and old; But a bright hilltop, in the breezy air Full of the morning freshness, high and clear, Where I may climb and drink the pure new day And see where winds away The path that God would send me, shining fair. —Edward Rowland Sill.

When prayer delights thee least, then learn to say, Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st pray: Crooked and warped I am, and I would fain Straighten myself by thy right line again. Oh, come, warm sun, and ripen my late fruits; Pierce, genial showers, down to my parchèd roots. My well is bitter, cast therein the tree, That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be. Say, what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed? The mighty utterance of a mighty need. The man is praying who doth press with might Out of his darkness into God's own light. White heat the iron in the furnace won, Withdrawn from thence 'twas cold and hard anon. Flowers, from their stalk divided, presently Droop, fall, and wither in the gazer's eye. The greenest leaf, divided from its stem, To speedy withering doth itself condemn. The largest river, from its fountain-head Cut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed. All things that live from God their sustenance wait, And sun and moon are beggars at his gate. All skirts extended of thy mantle hold When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold. —Richard Chenevix Trench.

One thing, alone, dear Lord, I dread— To have a secret spot That separates my soul from thee, And yet to know it not. Prayer was not meant for luxury, Or selfish pastime sweet; It is the prostrate creature's place At his Creator's feet. But if this waiting long hath come A present from on high, Teach me to find the hidden wealth That in its depths may lie. So in the darkness I can learn To tremble and adore; To sound my own vile nothingness, And thus to love thee more. —Frederick William Faber.

To stretch my hand and touch Him Though he be far away; To raise my eyes and see him Through darkness as through day; To lift my voice and call him— This is to pray! To feel a hand extended By One who standeth near; To view the love that shineth In eyes serene and clear; To know that he is calling— This is to hear! —Samuel W. Duffield.

Being perplexed, I say, "Lord, make it right! Night is as day to thee, Darkness is light. I am afraid to touch Things that involve so much; My trembling hand may shake— My skillful hand may break; Thine can make no mistake." Being in doubt, I say, "Lord, make it plain! Which is the true, safe way? Which would be vain? I am not wise to know, Nor sure of foot to go; My blind eyes cannot see What is so clear to thee. Lord, make it clear to me."

There is an eye that never sleeps Beneath the wing of night; There is an ear that never shuts When sink the beams of light. There is an arm that never tires When human strength gives way; There is a love that never fails When earthly loves decay. That eye is fixed on seraph throngs; That arm upholds the sky; That ear is filled with angel songs, That love is throned on high. But there's a power which man can wield When mortal aid is vain, That eye, that arm, that love to reach, That listening ear to gain. That power is prayer, which soars on high, Through Jesus, to the throne, And moves the hand which moves the world, To bring salvation down. —James Cowden Wallace.

Three doors there are in the temple Where men go up to pray, And they that wait at the outer gate May enter by either way. There are some that pray by asking; They lie on the Master's breast, And, shunning the strife of the lower life, They utter their cry for rest. There are some that pray by seeking; They doubt where their reason fails; But their mind's despair is the ancient prayer To touch the print of the nails. There are some that pray by knocking; They put their strength to the wheel For they have not time for thoughts sublime; They can only act what they feel. Father, give each his answer, Each in his kindred way; Adapt thy light to his form of night And grant him his needed day. —William Watson.

It is not prayer, This clamor of our eager wants That fills the air With wearying, selfish plaints. It is not faith To boldly count all gifts as ours— The pride that saith, "For me his wealth he ever showers." It is not praise To call to mind our happier lot, And boast bright days, God-favored, with all else forgot.

It is true prayer To seek the giver more than gift God's life to share And love—for this our cry to lift. It is true faith To simply trust his loving will, Whiche'er he saith— "Thy lot be glad" or "ill." It is true praise To bless alike the bright and dark; To sing, all days Alike, with nightingale and lark. —James W. White.

Lord, what a change within us one short hour Spent in thy presence will prevail to make; What heavy burdens from our bosoms take; What parchèd grounds refresh as with a shower! We kneel—and all about us seems to lower; We rise—and all, the distant and the near, Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear. We kneel, how weak! we rise, how full of power! Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, Or others, that we are not always strong; That we are ever overborne with care, Anxious and troubled, when with us is prayer, And joy and strength and courage are with thee? —Richard Chenevix Trench.

Asked and unasked, thy heavenly gifts unfold, And evil, though we ask it, Lord, withhold. —Homer, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits. And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears. Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? —Alfred Tennyson.

"Allah, Allah!" cried the sick man, racked with pain the long night through; Till with prayer his heart was tender, till his lips like honey grew.

But at morning came the Tempter; said, "Call louder, child of pain! See if Allah ever hear, or answer 'Here am I' again."

Like a stab the cruel cavil through his brain and pulses went; To his heart an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness, sent.

Then before him stands Elias; says "My child! why thus dismayed? Dost repent thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer afraid?"

"Ah!" he cried, "I've called so often; never heard the 'Here am I'; And I thought, God will not pity, will not turn on me his eye."

Then the grave Elias answered, "God said, 'Rise, Elias, go, Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf of woe.

"'Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry; That his prayer, "Come, gracious Allah," is my answer, "Here am I"'.

"Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undefiled; And in every 'O my Father!' slumbers deep a 'Here, my child!'"

—Jelal-ed-Deen, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

"Allah!" was all night long the cry of one oppressed with care, Till softened was his heart, and sweet became his lips with prayer. Then near the subtle tempter stole, and spake: "Fond babbler, cease! For not one 'Here am I' has God e'er sent to give thee peace." With sorrow sank the suppliant's soul and all his senses fled. But lo! at midnight, the good angel, Chiser, came, and said: "What ails thee now, my child, and why art thou afraid to pray? And why thy former love dost thou repent? declare and say." "Ah!" cries he, "never once spake God to me, 'Here am I, son.' Cast off methinks I am, and warned far from his gracious throne." To whom the angel answered, "Hear the word from God I bear: 'Go tell,' he said, 'yon mourner, sunk in sorrow and despair, Each "Lord, appear!" thy lips pronounce contains my "Here am I"; A special messenger I send beneath thine every sigh; Thy love is but a guerdon of the love I bear to thee. And sleeping in thy "Come, O Lord!" there lies "Here, son!" from me.'"

—Oriental, tr. by William Rounseville Alger.

He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us He made and loveth all. —Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I love my God, but with no love of mine, For I have none to give; I love thee, Lord, but all the love is thine For by thy love I live. I am as nothing, and rejoice to be Emptied and lost and swallowed up in thee. Thou, Lord, alone art all thy children need, And there is none beside; From thee the streams of blessedness proceed, In thee the blest abide— Fountain of life and all-abounding grace, Our source, our center, and our dwelling place. —Madame Guyon.

O Master, let me walk with thee In lowly paths of service free; Tell me thy secret; help me bear The strain of toil, the fret of care. Help me the slow of heart to move By some clear, winning word of love; Teach me the wayward feet to stay, And guide them in the homeward way. Teach me thy patience! still with Thee In closer, dearer company: In work that keeps faith sweet and strong, In trust that triumphs over wrong. In hope that sends a shining ray Far down the future's broadening way; In peace that only thou canst give, With thee, O Master, let me live. —Washington Gladden.

There was a man who prayed For wisdom that he might Sway men from sinful ways And lead them into light. Each night he knelt and asked the Lord To let him guide the sinful horde. And every day he rose again, To idly drift along, One of the many common men Who form the common throng.

To long with all our longing powers, And have the wish denied; To urge and strain our force in vain Against the unresting tide Of fate and circumstance, which still Baffles and beats and thwarts our will; To reach the goal toward which we strove All the long way and hard; To win the prize which, to our eyes, Seemed life's one best reward— Love's rose, Fame's laurel, olived Peace, The gold-fruit of Hesperides— And then to find the prize all vain, The joys all empty made— To taste the sting in each sweet thing, To watch Love's roses fade, The fruit to ashes turn, the gold To worthless dross within our hold! Now which has most of grief and pain, Which is the worse to bear: The joy we crave and never have, Or the curse of the granted prayer? The baffled wish or the bitter rue— Could our hearts choose between the two? O will of God, thou blessèd will! Which, like a balmèd air, The breath of souls about us rolls, Touching us everywhere, Imparting, like a soft caress, Healing, and help, and tenderness, O will of God, be thou our will! Then, come or joy or pain, Made one with thee it cannot be That we shall wish in vain, And, whether granted or denied, Our hearts shall be all satisfied. —Susan Coolidge.

Only a smile, yes, only a smile That a woman o'erburdened with grief Expected from you; 'twould have given relief, For her heart ached sore the while; But weary and cheerless she went away, Because, as it happened, that very day You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a word, yes, only a word, That the Spirit's small voice whispered "Speak"; But the worker passed onward unblessed and weak Whom you were meant to have stirred To courage, devotion, and love anew, Because when the message came to you You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a note, yes, only a note To a friend in a distant land. The Spirit said "Write," but then you had planned Some different work, and you thought It mattered little. You did not know 'Twould have saved a soul from sin and woe; You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a song, yes, only a song That the Spirit said "Sing to-night; Thy voice is thy Master's by purchased right"; But you thought, "'Mid this motley throng I care not to sing of the city of gold"— And the heart that your words might have reached grew cold; You were "out of touch" with your Lord.

Only a day, yes, only a day! But oh, can you guess, my friend, Where the influence reaches, and where it will end Of the hours that you frittered away? The Master's command is "Abide in me" And fruitless and vain will your service be If "out of touch" with your Lord.

—Jean H. Watson.

Prayer is Innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

We may question with wand of science, Explain, decide, and discuss; But only in meditation The Mystery speaks to us. —John Boyle O'Reilly.

I walk down the Valley of Silence, Down the dim, voiceless valley alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me—save God's and my own! And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown. Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human and sin. And still did I pine for the perfect, And still found the false with the true; I sought 'mid the human for heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of the blue; And I wept when the clouds of the world veiled Even that glimpse from my view. And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human, And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men, Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar, And heard a Voice call me. Since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 'Tis my trysting place with the Divine. When I fell at the feet of the Holy, And about me a voice said, "Be mine," There arose from the depths of my spirit An echo: "My heart shall be thine." Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep, and I dream, and I pray; But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from censer, Ascendeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Valley of Silence, I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim valley Till each finds a word for a wing, That to men, like the doves of the deluge The message of peace they may bring. But far out on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the silence That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen thoughts in the valley— Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces— Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; They pass through the valley like virgins Too pure for the touch of a word. Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care? It lieth afar, between mountains, And God and his angels are there; And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow, The other, the bright Mount of Prayer. —Abram Joseph Ryan.

Because I seek thee not O seek thou me! Because my lips are dumb O hear the cry I do not utter as thou passest by, And from my lifelong bondage set me free! Because, content, I perish far from thee, O seize me, snatch me from my fate and try My soul in thy consuming fire! Draw nigh And let me, blinded, thy salvation see. If I were pouring at thy feet my tears, If I were clamoring to see thy face, I should not need thee, Lord, as now I need, Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears, Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place. Because I seek not, pray not, give thou heed.

Two went to pray? O, rather say One went to brag, the other to pray; One stands up close and treads on high, Where the other dares not lend his eye; One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God. —Richard Crashaw.

A moment in the morning, ere the cares of the day begin, Ere the heart's wide door is open for the world to enter in, Ah, then, alone with Jesus, in the silence of the morn, In heavenly sweet communion, let your duty-day be born. In the quietude that blesses with a prelude of repose Let your soul be smoothed and softened, as the dew revives the rose.

A moment in the morning take your Bible in your hand, And catch a glimpse of glory from the peaceful promised land: It will linger still before you when you seek the busy mart, And like flowers of hope will blossom into beauty in your heart. The precious words, like jewels, will glisten all the day With a rare effulgent glory that will brighten all the way; When comes a sore temptation, and your feet are near a snare, You may count them like a rosary and make each one a prayer.

A moment in the morning—a moment, if no more— Is better than an hour when the trying day is o'er. 'Tis the gentle dew from heaven, the manna for the day; If you fail to gather early—alas! it melts away. So, in the blush of morning, take the offered hand of love, And walk in heaven's pathway and the peacefulness thereof.

—Arthur Lewis Tubbs.

Come to the morning prayer, Come, let us kneel and pray; Prayer is the Christian pilgrim's staff To walk with God all day. At noon, beneath the Rock Of Ages rest and pray; Sweet is the shadow from the heat When the sun smites by day. At eve, shut to the door, Round the home altar pray; And finding there "the house of God" At "heaven's gate" close the day. When midnight seals our eyes, Let each in spirit say, "I sleep, but my heart waketh, Lord, With thee to watch and pray." —James Montgomery.

How we, poor players on life's little stage, Thrust blindly at each other in our rage, Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to pray To God to keep us on our selfish way. We think to move him with our prayer and praise To serve our needs, as in the old Greek days Their gods came down and mingled in the fight With mightier arms the flying foe to smite. The laughter of those gods pealed down to man; For heaven was but earth's upper story then, Where goddesses about an apple strove And the high gods fell humanly in love. We own a God whose presence fills the sky; Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by; Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one, The sons of man, and calls them each his son. —Louise Chandler Moulton.

To make rough places plain, and crooked straight; To help the weak; to envy not the strong; To make the earth a sweeter dwelling place, In little ways, or if we may, in great, And in the world to help the heavenly song, We pray, Lord Jesus, grant to us thy grace!

A woman sat by a hearthside place Reading a book, with a pleasant face, Till a child came up, with a childish frown, And pushed the book, saying, "Put it down." Then the mother, slapping his curly head, Said, "Troublesome child, go off to bed; A great deal of Christ's life I must know To train you up as a child should go." And the child went off to bed to cry, And denounce religion—by and by. Another woman bent over a book With a smile of joy and an intent look, Till a child came up and jogged her knee, And said of the book, "Put it down—take me." Then the mother sighed as she stroked his head, Saying softly, "I never shall get it read: But I'll try by loving to learn His will, And his love into my child instill." That child went to bed without a sigh, And will love religion—by and by.

I have a life with Christ to live; But ere I live it must I wait Till learning can clear answer give Of this or that book's date? I have a life in Christ to live, I have a death in Christ to die; And must I wait till science give All doubts a full reply? Nay, rather, while the sea of doubt Is raging wildly round about, Questioning of life and death and sin, Let me but creep within Thy fold, O Christ, and at thy feet Take but the lowest seat, And hear thine awful voice repeat In gentlest accents, heavenly sweet, "Come unto me and rest; Believe me, and be blest." —John Campbell Shairp.

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. —Dr. Samuel Johnson.

Go when the morning shineth, Go when the noon is bright, Go when the eve declineth, Go in the hush of night; Go with pure mind and feeling, Fling earthly thoughts away, And, in thy chamber kneeling, Do thou in secret pray. Remember all who love thee, All who are loved by thee; Pray, too, for those who hate thee, If any such there be. Then for thyself in meekness A blessing humbly claim, And link with thy petition The great Redeemer's name. Or, if 'tis e'er denied thee In solitude to pray, Should holy thoughts come o'er thee When friends are round thy way, E'en then the silent breathing Of thy spirit, raised above, May reach His throne of glory Who is mercy, truth and love. Oh! not a joy or blessing With this can we compare: The power that he hath given us To pour our hearts in prayer. Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness Before His footstool fall, And remember in thy gladness His grace who gave thee all. —Jane C. Simpson.

More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats, That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer, Both for themselves and those who call them friend. For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. —Alfred Tennyson.

He walked with God, by faith, in solitude, At early dawn or tranquil eventide; In some lone leafy place he would abide Till his whole being was with God imbued. He walked with God amid the multitude; No threats or smiles could his firm soul divide From that beloved presence at his side Whose still small voice silenced earth's noises rude. Boldly abroad to men he testified How "the Lord cometh" and the judgment brings; Gently at home he trained his "sons and daughters"; Till, praying, a bright chariot he espied Sent to translate him, as on angels' wings, To walk with God beside heaven's "living waters." —R. Wilton.

Lord, speak to me, that I may speak In living echoes of thy tone; As thou hast sought, so let me seek Thy erring children, lost and lone. Oh, teach me, Lord, that I may teach The precious things thou dost impart; And wing my words that they may reach The hidden depths of many a heart. Oh, give thine own sweet rest to me, That I may speak with soothing power A word in season, as from thee, To weary ones in needful hour. Oh, use me, Lord, use even me, Just as thou wilt, and when and where; Until thy blessed face I see, Thy rest, thy joy, thy glory share.

God answers prayer— Answers always, everywhere, I may cast my anxious care, Burdens I could never bear, On the God who heareth prayer.

The camel, at the close of day Kneels down upon the sandy plain To have his burden lifted off And rest again. My soul, thou too should to thy knees When daylight draweth to a close, And let thy Master lift the load And grant repose. Else how couldst thou to-morrow meet, With all to-morrow's work to do, If thou thy burden all the night Dost carry through? The camel kneels at break of day To have his guide replace his load; Then rises up anew to take The desert road. So thou shouldst kneel at morning's dawn That God may give thee daily care; Assured that he no load too great Will make thee bear.

Take time to be holy; Speak oft with thy Lord; Abide in him always, And feed on his word; Make friends of God's children, Help those who are weak, Forgetting in nothing His blessing to seek. Take time to be holy; The world rushes on; Spend much time in secret With Jesus alone; By looking at Jesus Like him thou shalt be; Thy friends in thy conduct His likeness shall see. Take time to be holy; Let him be thy Guide, And run not before him Whatever betide; In joy or in sorrow Still follow thy Lord, And, looking to Jesus, Still trust in his word. Take time to be holy; Be calm in thy soul; Each thought and each motive Beneath his control; Thus led by his Spirit To fountains of love, Thou soon shalt be fitted For service above. —W. D. Longstaff.

Father, before thy footstool kneeling, Once more my heart goes up to thee, For aid, for strength, to thee appealing, Thou who alone canst succor me. Hear me! for heart and flesh are failing, My spirit yielding in the strife; And anguish wild as unavailing Sweeps in a flood across my life. Help me to stem the tide of sorrow; Help me to bear thy chastening rod; Give me endurance; let me borrow Strength from thy promise, O my God! Not mine the grief which words may lighten; Not mine the tears of common woes; The pang with which my heart-strings tighten Only the All-seeing One may know. And I am weak, my feeble spirit Shrinks from life's task in wild dismay; Yet not that thou that task wouldst spare it, My Father, do I dare to pray. Into my soul thy might infusing, Strengthening my spirit by thine own; Help me, all other aid refusing, To cling to thee, and thee alone. And O in my exceeding weakness Make thy strength perfect; thou art strong: Aid me to do thy will with meekness, Thou to whom all my powers belong. O let me feel that thou art near me; Close to thy side, I shall not fear; Hear me, O Strength of Israel, hear me, Sustain and aid! in mercy hear.

Lord, send thy light, Not only in the darkest night, But in the shadowy, dim twilight, Wherein my strained and aching sight Can scarce distinguish wrong from right, Then send thy light. Teach me to pray. Not only in the morning gray, Or when the moonbeam's silver ray Falls on me, but at high noonday, When pleasure beckons me away, Teach me to pray. —Constance Milman.

The little sharp vexations And the briars that cut the feet, Why not take all to the Helper Who has never failed us yet? Tell him about the heartache, And tell him the longings too, Tell him the baffled purpose When we scarce know what to do. Then, leaving all our weakness With the One divinely strong, Forget that we bore the burden And carry away the song. —Phillips Brooks.

My proud foe at my hands to take no boon will choose. Thy prayers are that one gift which he cannot refuse. —Richard Chenevix Trench.

Man's plea to man is, that he nevermore Will beg, and that he never begged before; Man's plea to God is, that he did obtain A former suit, and therefore sues again. How good a God we serve, that, when we sue, Makes his old gifts examples of his new. —Francis Quarles.

Grant me, O God, thy merciful protection; And, in protection, give me strength, I pray; And, in my strength, O grant me wise discretion; And, in discretion, make me ever just; And, with my justice, may I mingle love, And, with my love, O God, the love of thee; And, with the love of thee, the love of all. —From the Welsh.

O sad estate Of human wretchedness! so weak is man, So ignorant and blind, that did not God Sometimes withhold in mercy what we ask, We should be ruined at our own request. —Hannah More.

Why win we not at once what we in prayer require? That we may learn great things as greatly to desire. —Richard Chenevix Trench.