FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. HEN sorrow all our heart would ask, WHEN We need not shun our daily task, And hide ourselves for calm; The herbs we seek to heal our woe Familiar by our pathway grow, Our common air is balm. I REST. LAY me down to sleep, With little thought or care Whether my waking find A bowing, burdened head, My good right hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong - all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last. JOHN KEBLE. My half day's work is done, My patient heart, And grasp His banner still, These stripes, no less than stars, SINCE INCE in a land not barren still, My lot is fallen, blest be thy will! And since these biting frosts but kill Blest be thy dew, and blest thy frost, And cured by crosses at thy cost. The dew doth cheer what is distrest, Thus, while thy several mercies plot, For as thy hand the weather steers, HENRY VAUGHAN, 1621-1695. PEACE IN TROUBLE. WHAT within me and without, Hourly on my spirit weighs, Burdening heart and soul with doubt, God, who givest rest and peace, When my trials tarry long, Unto Thee I look and wait, Let things go e'en as they will; Yea, on Thee, my God, I rest, For I know the last is best, When the crown of joy is won. In Thy might all things I bear, Let Thy mercy's wings be spread Be my All; in all I do Let me only seek Thy will; Where the heart to Thee is true, All is peaceful, calm, and still. A. H. FRANCKE, 1663-1727. IT REST. T was Thy will, my Father, It is Thy care, my Father, It is Thy truth, Thy truth alone, And soothes me like a happy child I have known youth, my Father, Now life's small taper faintly burns, But Thine eternal love remains Unchangeably the same. EUPHEMIA SAXBY. HYMN FOR SICKNESS. GOD OD! whom I as love have known, And these pains are sent of Thee, Suffering is the work now sent; Suffering as the hours go by; |