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A PRAYER
Imitated from the Persian

LORD! who art merciful as well as just,
Incline Thine ear to me, a child of dust!
Not what I would, O Lord! I offer Thee,

Alas! but what I can.
Father Almighty, who hast made me man,
And bade me look to heaven, for Thou art there,

Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
Four things which are not in Thy treasury,
I lay before Thee, Lord, with this petition:
My nothingness, my wants,
My sins, and my contrition.

R. Southey

XII

THY WILL BE DONE

T7ATHER, I know that all my life

-I Is portioned out for me,

And the changes that are sure to come

I do not fear to see;
But I ask Thee for a present mind,

Intent on pleasing Thee.

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,

To meet the glad with joyful smiles
And wipe the weeping eyes:

And a heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathize.

I would not have the restless will

That hurries to and fro;
Seeking for some great thing to do,

A secret thing to know:
I I would be treated as a child,

And guided where I go.

Wherever in the world I am,

In whatsoe'er estate,
I have a fellowship with hearts

To keep and cultivate,
And a work of lowly love to do,

From the Lord on whom I wait.

And if some things I do not ask

In my cup of blessing be, I would have my spirit filled the more

With grateful love to Thee; More careful, not to serve Thee much,

But to please Thee perfectly.

There are briars besetting every path,

That call for patient care; There is a cross in every lot,

And an earnest need for prayer; But a lowly heart that leans on Thee,

Is happy anywhere.

In a service which Thy will appoints,
There are no bonds for me;

For my inmost heart is taught the truth
That makes Thy children free;

And a life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty.

A. L. Waring THE FORCE OF PRA YER

is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale;

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The falconer to the lady said:
And she made answer, "Endless sorrow!"

For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words,
And from the look of the falconer's eye;

And from the love that was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

Young Romilly through Barden Woods

Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash

To let slip upon buck or doe.

The pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called the Strid,

A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,

And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid,
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

Shall bound across the Strid?

He sprang in glee, — for what cared he

That the river was strong and the rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap.

The boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,

And long unspeaking sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts

A name more sad than Yarrow.

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, "Let there be,

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory."

The stately Priory was reared,

And Wharf, as he rolled along, To matins joined a mournful voice,

Nor failed at even-song.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness

That looked not for relief! But slowly did her succor come,

And a patience to her grief.

O there is never sorrow of heart,

That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask

Of Him to be our friend.

W. Wordsworth

XIV

THE CHRISTIAN'S PRAYER

JESUS, my strength, my hope,
On Thee I cast my care,
With humble confidence look up,
And know thou hear'st my prayer.
Give me on Thee to wait
Till I can all things do,
On Thee almighty to create,
Almighty to renew!

I want a sober mind,

A self-renouncing will, That tramples down and casts behind

The baits of pleasing ill:

A soul inured to pain,

To hardships, grief, and loss; Bold to take up, firm to sustain,

The consecrated cross.

I want a godly fear, A quick discerning eye, That looks to Thee when sin is near, That sees the tempter fly; A spirit still prepared, And armed with jealous care,

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