Work, work! each moment as it flies
Holds out a glory for the skies;
Work, work! each moment slighted now
Plucks a rich jewel from thy brow.
HOUGH lowly here our lot may be,
High work have we to do,-
In faith and trust to follow Him
Whose lot was lowly too.
Our days of darkness we may bear,
Strong in a Father's love,
Leaning on his almighty arm,
And fix'd our hopes above.
Our lives, enrich'd with gentle thoughts And loving deeds, may be
A stream that still the nobler
The nearer to the sea.
To Jesus true, to conscience true,
However tried and press'd,
In God's clear sight high work we do,
If we but do our best.
Thus may we make the lowliest lot
With rays of glory bright;
Thus may we turn a crown of thorns
Into a crown of light.
CORN not the slightest word or deed,
Nor deem it void of power;
There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed,
That waits its natal hour.
A whisper'd word may touch the heart,
And call it back to life;
A look of love bid sin depart,
And still unholy strife.
No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its power may be,
Nor what results unfolded dwell
Within it silently.
Work on, despair not; bring thy mite,
Nor care how small it be;
God is with all that serve the Right, The Holy, True, and Free.
IT is hard to work for God,
To rise and take his part
Upon this battle-field of earth,
And not sometimes lose heart!
He hides himself so wondrously,
As though there were no God;
He is least seen when all the powers
Of ill are most abroad.
O blest is he to whom is given
The instinct that can tell
That God is on the field, when he
Is most invisible !
And blest is he who can divine
Where real right doth lie,
And dares to take the side that seems
Unsafe to human eye!
O learn to scorn the praise of men!
O learn to lose with God!
For Jesus won the world through shame,
And beckons thee his road.
For right is right, since God is God,
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.
HEN we cannot see our way,
Let us trust and still obey;
He who bids us forward go,
Cannot fail the way to shew.
Though the sea be deep and wide,
Though a passage seem denied;
Fearless let us still proceed,
Since the Lord vouchsafes to lead.
Though it seems the gloom of night,
Though we see no ray of light;
Since the Lord himself is there,
'Tis not meet that we should fear.
Night with Him is never night,
Where He is, there all is light;
When he calls us, why delay?
They are happy who obey.
Be it ours then, while we're here,
Him to follow without fear!
Where He calls us, there to go,
What He bids us, that to do.
Y will would like a life of ease,
M'And power to do, and time to rest,
And health and strength my will would please,
But, Lord, I know thy will is best.
If I have strength to do thy will,
That should be power enough for me:
Whether to work or to sit still
The appointment of the day may be.
And if by sickness I may grow
More patient, holy, and resign'd;
Strong health I need not wish to know,
And greater ease I cannot find.
And rest-I need not seek it here,
For perfect rest remaineth still:
When in thy presence we appear,
Rest shall be given by thy will.
Lord, I have given my life to thee,
And every day and hour is thine;
What thou appointest let them be:
Thy will is better, Lord, than mine.
NWARD let my children go,
God the Lord commands us so;
Though the path be through the sea,
Little flock, what's that to thee?
Only trust his love unbounded,
Thou shalt never be confounded.
Art thou feeble, sorely tried?
Art thou press'd on every side?
Does it seem as if no power
Could relieve thee in this hour?
Wherefore art thou thus disheartened?
Is the arm that saves thee shortened?
Dark and wide the sea appears,
Every soul is full of fears,
Yet the word is onward still!
Onward move, and do his will;
And the great deep shall discover
God's highway to take thee over.
Stand thou still, and thou shalt see
Wonders wrought, and wrought for thee;
Safe thyself on yonder shore,
Thou shalt see thy foes no more: And there tell the wondrous story Of thy Saviour's might and glory.
OW shall I follow him I serve?
How shall I copy him I love?
Nor from those blessed footsteps swerve,
Which lead me to his seat above?
Privations, sorrows, bitter scorn,
The life of toil, the mean abode,
The faithless kiss, the crown of thorn,—
Are these the consecrated road?
'Twas thus He suffer'd, though a Son,
Foreknowing, choosing, feeling all;
Until the perfect work was done,
And drunk the bitter cup of gall.
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