Be Strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift; We have hard work to do and loads to lift; Shun not the struggle-face it; 'tis God's gift. Be Strong! Say not, "The days are evil. Who's to blame?" And fold the hands and acquiesce-oh shame! Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name. Be Strong! It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong, How hard the battle goes, the day how long; Faint not-fight on! Tomorrow comes the song. -Maltbie Davenport Babcock
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That his prayer was nothing else but a sense of the presence of God, his soul being at that time insesible to everything but Divine love: and that when the appointed times of prayer were past, he found no difference, because he still continued with God, praising and blessing Him with all his might, so that he passed his life in continual joy; yet hoped that God would give him somewhat to suffer, when he should grow stronger.
That we ought, once for all, heartily to put our whole trust in God, and make a total surrender of ourselves to Him, secure that He would not deceive us. That we ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed. That we should not wonder if, in the beginning, we often failed in our endeavors, but that at last we should gain a habit, which will naturally produce its acts in us, without care, and to our exceeding great delight. The Practice of the Presence of God, Brother Lawrence (1614-1691) O God, the Rock of Ages,
Who evermore hast been, What time the tempest rages, Our dwelling-place serene: Before Thy first creations, O Lord, the same as now, To endless generations, The Everlasting Thou! Our years are like the shadows On sunny hills that lie, Or grasses in the meadows That blossom but to die: A sleep, a dream, a story, By strangers quickly told, An unremaining glory Of things that soon are old. O Thou who canst not slumber, Whose light grows never pale, Teach us aright to number Our years before they fail! On us Thy mercy lighten, On us Thy goodness rest, And let Thy Spirit brighten The hearts Thyself hast blessed! -Edward H. Bickersteth Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned,
And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right, And how what seemed reproof was love most true. And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, He heeded not our cry, Because His wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out the potion for our lips to drink; And if some friend you love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, But wear your sorrow with obedient grace! And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon His love can send; If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key. But not today. Then be content, poor heart; God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,- Time will reveal the chalices of gold. And it, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly see and understand, I think that we will say, "God knew the best!" -May Riley Smith Beautiful faces are those that wear-
It matters little if dark or fair- Whole-souled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes where hearthfires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like songs of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is honest and brave and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministries to and fro, Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Ceaseless burdens of homely care With patient grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless Silent rivers of happiness, Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. Beautiful twilight at set of sun, Beautiful goal with race well won, Beautiful rest with work well done. Beautiful graves where grasses creep, Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep Over worn-out hands-oh! beautiful sleep! -Ellen P. Allerton Give us Men!
Men-from every rank, Fresh and free and frank; Men of thought and reading, Men of light and leading, Men of loyal breeding, The nation's welfare speeding; Men of faith and not of fiction, Men of lofty aim in action; Give us Men-I say again, Give us Men! Give us Men! Strong and stalwart ones; Men whom highest hope inspires, Men whom purest honor fires, Men who trample self beneath them, Men who make their country wreathe them As her noble sons, Worthy of their sires; Men who never shame their mothers, Men who never fail their brothers, True, however false are others: Give us Men-I say again, Give us Men! Give us Men! Men who, when the tempest gathers, Grasp the standard of their fathers In the thickest fight; Men who strike for home and altar, (Let the coward cringe and falter), God defend the right! True as truth the lorn and lonely, Tender, as the brave are only; Men who tread where saints have trod, Men for Country, Home-and God: Give us Men! I say again-again- Give us Men! -Josiah Gilbert Holland I fight a battle every day
Against discouragement and fear; Some foe stands always in my way, The path ahead is never clear! I must forever be on guard Against the doubts that skulk along; I get ahead by fighting hard, But fighting keeps my spirit strong. I hear the croakings of Despair, The dark predictions of the weak; I find myself pursued by Care, No matter what the end I seek; My victories are small and few, It matters not how hard I strive; Each day the fight begins anew, But fighting keeps my hopes alive. My dreams are spoiled by circumstance, My plans are wrecked by Fate or Luck; Some hour, perhaps, will bring my chance, But that great hour has never struck; My progress has been slow and hard, I've had to climb and crawl and swim, Fighting for every stubborn yard; But I have kept in fighting trim. I have to fight my doubts away And be on guard against my fears; The feeble croaking of Dismay Has been familiar through the years; My dearest plans keep going wrong, Events combine to thwart my will; But fighting keeps my spirit strong, And I am undefeated still! -S. E. Kiser If you your lips would keep from slips,
Five things observe with care: Of whom you speak, to whom you speak, And how and when and where. If you your ears would save from jeers, These things keep meekly hid: Myself and I, and mine and my, And how I do and did. -Unknown A wise old owl lived in an oak;
The more he saw the less he spoke; The less he spoke the more he heard: Why can't we all be like that bird? -Edward Hersey Richards Man's life is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see, While the weavers work and the shuttles fly Till the dawn of eternity. Some shuttles are filled with silver threads And some with threads of gold, While often but the darker hues Are all that they may hold. But the weaver watches with skillful eye Each shuttle fly to and fro, And sees the pattern so deftly wrought As the loom moves sure and slow. God surely planned the pattern: Each thread, the dark and fair, Is chosen by His master skill And placed in the web with care. He only knows its beauty, And guides the shuttles which hold The threads so unattractive, As well as the threads of gold. Not till each loom is silent, And the shuttles cease to fly, Shall God reveal the pattern And explain the reason why The dark threads were as needful In the weaver's skillful hand As the threads of gold and silver For the pattern which He planned. -Unknown |
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