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Then sorrow touch'd by Thee grows bright
As darkness shows us worlds of light
Imitated from the Persian
Lord! who art merciful as well as just,
Alas! but what I can.
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer.
THY WILL BE DONE
Father, I know that all my life
Is portion'd out for me,
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 fill'd 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
"What 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 reach'd 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 check'd 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 rear'd,
To matins join'd a mournful voice,
And the Lady pray'd in heaviness
But slowly did her succour come,
Oh there is never sorrow of heart,
If but to God we turn, and ask
THE CHRISTIAN'S PRA YER
Jesus, my strength, my hope,
On Thee I cast my care,
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: