PATIENCE. DEA EAR Jesus, give me patience here, Henry Vaughan. WAITING FOR CHRIST. UNCH 'NCHANGEABLE, Almighty Lord, The true, and merciful, and just, Be mindful of thy gracious word, Wherein thou causeft me to trust. My weary eyes look out in vain, And long thy saving health to see; But known to thee is all my pain, When wilt thou come and comfort me? Prisoner of hope, to thee I turn; Thee my ftrong hold, and only stay; But fhall thy creature afk thee why? To thee, the only wise and true, The manner and the time be thine. Only preserve my soul from sin, And plant thy heaven of love in me. Wesley. A THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. "Ye have need of patience." - Heb. 10: 36. GENTLE Angel walketh throughout a world of woe, With meffages of mercy to mourning hearts below; So gently will He lead thee through all the cloudy day, And whisper of glad-tidings to cheer the pilgrim-way; His courage never failing, when thine is almost gone, He takes thy heavy burden, and helps to bear it on. To soft and tearful sadness He changes dumb despair, And soothes to deep submiffion the storm of grief and care; Where midnight fhades are brooding, He pours the light of noon, And every grievous wound He heals, moft surely, if not soon. He will not blame thy sorrows, while He brings the healing balm; He does not chide thy longings, while He soothes them into calm; And when thy heart is murmuring, and wildly asking why? He smiling beckons forward, points upward to the sky. He will not always answer thy queftions and thy fear, His watchword is, "Be patient, thy journey's end is near! And ever through the toilsome way, He tells of joys to come, And points the pilgrim to his reft, the wanderer to his home. Spitta. GOD'S ANVIL. AIN'S furnace-heat within me quivers, PAIN'S God's breath upon the flame doth blow, And all my heart in anguish shivers, And trembles at the fiery glow; And in his hotteft fire, hold ftill. He comes and lays my heart, all heated, Into his own fair fhape to beat it With his great hammer, blow on blow; And yet I whisper-as God will! And at his heaviest blows, hold still. He takes my softened heart and beats it; He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it, And, in his mighty hand, hold ftill. Why should I murmur? for the sorrow He kindles for my profit purely Julius Sturm. |