"NEVERTHELESS, NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS THOU WILT."
GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,
That it should know no ill;
We learn to kiss the chastening rod,
And feel its sharpness still.
But how unlike the Christian's tears,
To those the world must shed!
His sighs are tranquil and resigned
As the heart from which they sped.
The saint may be compelled to meet
Misfortune's saddest blow;
His bosom is alive to feel
The keenest pang of woe:
But, ever as the wound is given,
There is a hand unseen,
Hasting to wipe away the scar,
And hide where it has been.
The Christian would not have his lot
Be other than it is;
For, while his Father rules the world,
He knows that world is his.
He knows that He who gave the best,
Will give him all beside;
Assured each seeming good he asks
Is evil, if denied.
When clouds or sorrow gather round,
His bosom owns no fear;
He knows, where'er his portion be,
His God will still be there.
And when the threatened storm has burst,
Whate'er the trial be,
Something yet whispers him within,
Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink
From the afflictive stroke;
But faith disclaims the hasty plaint
Impatient nature spoke.
His grateful bosom quickly learns.
Its sorrows to disown;
Yields to His pleasure, and forgets
The choice was not his own.
66 SEEING, THEN, THAT ALL THESE THINGS SHALL BE
Ask the bird that soars on high,
Midway between earth and sky,
What he sees, when he is there,
Of the world's receding sphere.
He could teach, if he might say,
Heavenward as he bends his
way,
How the wide world lessens fast
In the growing distance lost.
Lesser objects lost to view,
Great ones are but little now-
All that once were bright and fair,
Lose their tints and disappear.
Doubt you, then, why they who rise
Near and nearer to the skies,
See on earth's diminished sphere,
Little that is worth their care?
They whose bosoms once could joy
In the vain world's vainest toy-
They whose hearts could sometimes feel
E'en the slightest touch of ill-
From the world by sorrow riven,
Gone already half to heaven-
Look with calmness on a scene,
Scarcely now within their ken.
Deem not that the heart is chilled, Which, though once with anguish filled, Such emotions all forgot,
Can smile and say, 'It matters not.'
GLORIOUS Shepherd of the sheep,
May I dare to call me Thine,
One whom Thou wilt tend and keep
Safe beneath Thy wings divine?
Ah! with Thee so kind and near,
What have I to wish or fear?
Where the heavenly pastures grow,
Where the living waters glide,
Led and fed by Thee below,
I have nought to ask beside;
Nought but thankfulness of heart,
To proclaim how good Thou art.
Keep me in Thy righteous ways,
Guide me with Thy holy wand,
Through this life's perplexing maze,
Through the vale of death beyond;
Gracious Thou, and happy I,
With so great a Friend so nigh,
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