If we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road, If our lips could taste the wormwood, If our backs could feel the load, Would we waste the day in wishing For a time that ne'er can be? Would we wait in such impatience For our ships to come from sea? If we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the windowpane Would be cold and stiff tomorrow- Never trouble us again- Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the print of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah! These little ice-cold fingers- How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track! How these little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns-but roses- For our reaping by and by. Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air! Lips from which the seal of silence None but God can roll away, Never blossomed in such beauty As adorns the mouth today; And sweet words that freight our memory With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of today, With a patient hand removing All the briars from the way. -May Riley Smith
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"How far is it to Bethlehem Town?"
Just over Jersusalem hills adown, Past lovely Rachel's white-domed tomb- Sweet shrine of motherhood's young doom. "It isn't far to Bethlehem Town- Just over the dusty roads adown, Past Wise Men's well, still offering Cool draughts from welcome wayside spring; Past shepherds with their flutes of reed That charm the woolly sheep they lead; Past boys with kites on hilltops flying, And soon you're there where Bethlehem's lying. Sunned white and sweet on olived slopes, Gold-lighted still with Judah's hopes. "And so we fnd the Shepherd's field And plain that gave rich Boaz yield, And look where Herod's villa stood. We thrill that Bethlehem Town to-day Looks down on Christmas homes that pray. "It isn't far to Bethlehem Town! It's anywhere that Christ comes down And finds in people's friendly face A welcome and abiding place. The road to Bethlehem runs right through The homes of folks like me and you." -Madeleine Sweeny Miller Poor Lil' Brack Sheep dat stray'd away,
Done los' in de win' and rain, An' de Shepherd He say, "O hirelin', Go fin' my sheep again." An' do hirelin' frowns, "O Shepherd, Dat sheep am brack an' bad." But de Shepherd He smile like de lil' brack sheep Is de onliest lamb he had, Is de onliest lamb he had. An' he say, "O hirelin', hasten! For de win' an' de rain am col', And dat lil' brack sheep am lonesome Out dere so far from de fol'." An' de hirelin' frown, "O Shepherd, Dat sheep am ol' an' gray." But de Shepherd He smile like de lil' brack sheep Wuz fair as de break ob day, Wuz fair as de break ob day. An He say, "O hirelin', hasten! Lo, here is de ninety an' nine, But dere way off from de sheep fol' Is dat lil' brack sheep ob mine." An' de hirelin' frown, "O Shepherd, De rest ob de sheep am here." But de Shepherd He smile like de lil' brack sheep He hol' it de mostes' dear, He hol' it de mostes' dear. An' de Shepherd go out in de darkness, Where de night was col' an' bleack, An' de lil' brack sheep He fin' it, An' lay it agains' His cheek. An' de hirelin' frown, "O Shepherd, Don't bring dat sheep to me." But de Shepherd He smile, an' He hol' it close, An' de lil' brack sheep-is me! An' de lil' brack sheep-is me! -Ethel M. C. Brazelton Is it true, O Christ in Heaven,
That the highest suffer most? That the strongest wander furthest, And more helplessly are lost? The the mark of rank in nature Is capacity for pain? And the anguish of the singer Makes the sweetness of the strain? Is it true, O Christ in Heaven, That whichever way we go Walls of darkness must surround us, Things we would but cannot know? That the infinite must bound us Like a temple veil unrent, Whilst the finite ever wearies, So that none's therein content? Is it true, O Christ in Heaven, That the fullness yet to come Is so glorious and so perfect That to know would strike us dumb? That if ever for a moment We could pierce beyond the sky With these poor dim eyes of mortals, We should just see God and die? -Sarah Williams Go THOU thy way, and I go mine,
Apart, yet not afar; Only a thin veil hangs between The pathways where we are. And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me"; This is my prayer; He looks thy way, He looketh mine, And keeps us near. I know not where thy road my lie, Or which way mine will be; If mine will lead thro' parching sands And thine beside the sea; Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me, So never fear; He holds thy hands, He claspeth mine, And keeps us near. Should wealth and fame perchance be thine, And my lot lowly be, Or you be sad and sorrowful, And glory be for me, Yet God keep watch 'tween thee and me; Both be His care; One arm round thee and one round me Will keep us near. I sigh sometimes to see thy face, But since this may not be, I'll leave thee to the care of Him Who cares for thee and me. "I'll keep you both beneath my wings," This comforts, dear; One wing o'er thee and one o'er me, Will keep us near. And though our paths be separate, And thy way is not mine, Yet coming to the Mercy seat, My soul will meet with thine. And "God keep watch 'twee thee and me," I'll whisper there. He blesseth thee, He blesseth me, And we are near. -Julia A. Baker Childen of yesterday,
Heirs of tomorrow, What are you weaving? Labor and sorrow? Look to your looms again. Faster and faster Fly the great shuttles Prepared by the Master; Life's in the loom, Room for it- Room! Children of yesterday, Heirs of tomorrow, Lighten the labor And sweeten the sorrow. Now, while the shuttles fly Faster and faster, Up and be at it, At work with the Master; He stands at your loom, Room for Him- Room! Children of yesterday, Heirs of tomorrow, Look at your fabric Of labor and sorrow. Seamy and dark With despair and disaster, Turn it, and-lo, The design of the Master! The Lord's at the loom; Room for Him- Room! -Mary Artemisia Lathbury There is a destiny that makes us brothers;
None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own. I care not what his temples or his creeds, One thing holds firm and fast- That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of man is cast. -Edwin Markham God of our fathers, known of old-
Lord of our far-flung battle line- Beneath Whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! Amen. -Rudyard Kipling |
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