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LORD! who art merciful as well as just,
Alas! but what I can.
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
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;
Intent on pleasing Thee.
I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
To meet the glad with joyful smiles
And a heart at leisure from itself,
I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro;
A secret thing to know:
And guided where I go.
Wherever in the world I am,
In whatsoe'er estate,
To keep and cultivate,
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,
For my inmost heart is taught the truth
And a life of self-renouncing love
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:
For she knew that her son was dead.
She knew it by the falconer's words,
And from the love that was in her soul
Young Romilly through Barden Woods
Is ranging high and low;
To let slip upon buck or doe.
The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
With rocks on either side.
This striding-place is called the Strid,
A name which it took of yore:
And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid,
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,
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
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.
THE CHRISTIAN'S PRAYER
JESUS, my strength, my hope,
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,