Commit thy way to God.

OMMIT thy way to God,

The weight which makes thee faint; Worlds are to Him no load,

To Him breathe thy complaint.

He who for winds and clouds

Maketh a pathway free, Through wastes, or hostile crowds, Can make a way for thee.

Thou must in Him be blest,
Ere bliss can be secure;

On His work must Thou rest
If thy work shall endure.
To anxious, prying thought,
And weary, fretting care,
The Highest yieldeth nought;
He giveth all to prayer!

Father! Thy faithful love,
Thy mercy, wise and mild,
Sees what will blessing prove,

Or what will hurt Thy child.
And what Thy wise foreseeing,
Doth for Thy children choose,
Thou bringest into being,

Nor suff'rest them to lose.

All means always possessing,

Invincible in might;

Thy doings are all blessing,
Thy goings are all light.
Nothing Thy work suspending,
No foe can make Thee pause,
When Thou Thine own defending,
Dost undertake their cause.

Hope then, though woes be doubled,
Hope and be undismayed;
Let not thine heart be troubled,
Nor let it be afraid.

This prison where thou art,

Thy God will break it soon, And flood with light thy heart In His own blessed noon.

Up, up! the day is breaking,
Say to thy cares, good night!

Thy troubles from thee shaking,
Like dreams in day's fresh light.

Thou wearest not the crown,

Nor the best course canst tell;

God sitteth on the throne,

And guideth all things well.

Trust Him to govern, then!

No king can rule like Him; How wilt thou wonder when Thine eyes no more are dim!

To see those paths which vex thee,
How wise they were, and meet;
The works which now perplex thee,
How beautiful, complete!

Faithful the love thou sharest,
All, all is well with thee;
The crown from hence thou bearest
With shouts of victory.
In thy right hand, to-morrow,
Thy God shall place the palms;
To Him who chased thy sorrow
How glad will be thy psalms.

Paul Gerhardt.

He doeth all things well.

HOPED that with the brave and strong

My portioned task might lie; To toil amid the busy throng,

With purpose pure

and high:

But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well;

I said so with my breaking heart,
When first this anguish fell.

These weary hours will not be lost,

These days of misery,

These nights of darkness, tempest-tost,―

Can I but turn to Thee;

With secret labour to sustain

In patience every blow,

To gather fortitude from pain,
And holiness from woe.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humble I should be,

More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee;
Should death be standing at the gate,

Thus should I keep my vow;

But, Lord! whatever be my fate,

Oh, let me serve Thee now!

Anne Brontë.

Love to God.

E love Thee, Lord, yet not alone
Because Thy bounteous hand
Showers down its rich and ceaseless gifts
On ocean and on land:

'Tis not alone because Thy names

Of wisdom, power, and love,
Are written on the earth beneath,
The glorious skies above.

We love Thee, Lord, because when we
Had erred and gone astray,

Thou didst recal our wandering souls

Into the heavenward way;

When helpless, hopeless, we were lost
In sin and sorrow's night,

Thou didst send forth a guiding ray
Of Thy benignant light.

Because when we forsook Thy ways,
Nor kept Thy holy will,

Thou wert not the avenging Judge,
But gracious Father still;
Because we have forgot Thee, Lord,
Yet Thou hast not forgot;
Because we have forsaken Thee,

Yet Thou forsakest not:

Because, O Lord, Thou lovedst us

With everlasting love:

Because Thy Son came down to die,

That we might live above;

Because, when we were heirs of wrath,

Thou gavest hopes of heaven:

Yes; much we love, who much have sinned,

And much have been forgiven.

I. A. E.