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What profits it that Christ is born,

And bringeth childhood back to men,
Unless our long-lost right we mourn,

And win through penitence again,
And lead a God-like life on earth,
As children of the second birth ?
What profits it that he is risen,

If dead in sins thou yet dost lie ?
If yet thou cleavest to thy prison,

What profit that he dwells on high?
His triumph will avail thee nought,
If thou hast ne'er the battle fought.
Then live and suffer, do and bear,

As Christ thy pattern here hath done,
And seek his innocence to wear,

That he may count thee of his own. Who loveth Christ must live at war With all that breaks his holy law. 104

by one the sands are flowing,

One by one the moments fall;
Some are coming, some are going;

Do not strive to grasp them all.
One by one thy duties wait thee,

Let thy whole strength go to each ;
Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach.
One by one, bright gifts from heaven,

Joys are sent thee here below;
Take them readily when given,

Ready, too, to let them go.

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One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,

Do not fear an armed band ;
One will fade as others greet thee,

Shadows passing through the land. Do not look at life's long sorrow;

See how small each moment's pain; God will help thee for to-morrow,

So each day begin again. Every hour that fleets so slowly

Has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown, and holy,

If thou set each gem with care.




TOW in the morn thy seed,
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,

Broad-cast it o'er the land.
Beside all waters sow,

The highway furrows stock;
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow,

Scatter it on the rock.
The good, the fruitful ground,

Expect not everywhere;
O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found;

Go forth then everywhere.
Thou know'st not which may thrive,

The late or early sown;
Grace keeps the precious germ alive,

When and wherever strown;

And duly shall appear,

In verdure, beauty, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,

And the full corn at length.
Thou canst not toil in vain;

Cold, heat, and moist and dry Shall foster mature the grain,

For garners in the sky.
Hence, when the glorious end,

The day of God is come,
The angel reapers shall descend,
And heaven cry,

“Harvest home!"


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JELL me not in mournful numbers,

“Life is but an empty dream,” For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.
Life is real, life is earnest,

And the grave is not its goal;
“ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,”

Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

Lives of good men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us,

Footprints on the sands of time:
Footprints that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,

Nor our onward course abate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.


CHATSOEVER be the seed,

Thought or feeling, word or deed, Buried howsoever deep, What we sow that shall we reap. Every day and every hour, 'Mid the sunshine, 'mid the shower, We are planting what must grow, Yield it joy, or yield it woe. In the past full many a root Have we laid for bitter fruit, Sad regrets, and thoughts of gloom, Ripening for the day of doom. In the future may we sow Only what to joy will grow, Seeds of truth and holiness, Evermore our souls to bless!


10 labour on; spend, and be spent,

Is near,


It is the way the Master went,

Should not the servant tread it still ? Go labour on; 'tis not for nought;

Thy earthly loss is heavenly gain; Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not;

The Master praises,—what are men ? Go labour on; enough, while here,

If he shall praise thee, if he deign Thy willing heart to mark and cheer;

No toil for him shall be in vain. Go labour on; your hands are weak,

Your knees are faint, your soul cast down; Yet falter not; the prize you seek

kingdom and a crown! Go labour on, while it is day,

The world's dark night is hastening on; Speed, speed thy work, cast sloth away:

It is not thus that souls are won. Men die in darkness at your side,

Without a hope to cheer the tomb; Take up the torch and wave it wide,

The torch that lights time's thickest gloom. Toil on, faint not, keep watch and pray;

Be wise the erring soul to win ; Go forth into the world's highway,

Compel the wanderer to come in. Toil on, and in thy toil rejoice;

For toil comes rest, for exile home; Soon shalt thou hear the Bridegroom's voice, The midnight peal, Behold I come!

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