More sweet to Thee than all acclaim
  Of storm and ocean, stars and flame,
  In favor more before Thy face
  Than pageantry of time and space.

  The worship and the service be
  Of him Thou madest most like Thee,—­
  Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath,
  Whose spirit is the lord of death!

CHARLES G.D.  ROBERTS.

* * * * *

O MASTER, LET ME WALK WITH THEE.

  O Master, let me walk with thee
  In lowly paths of service free;
  Tell me thy secret; help me bear
  The strain of toil, the fret of care;
  Help me the slow of heart to move
  By some clear winning word of love;
  Teach me the wayward feet to stay,
  And guide them in the homeward way.

  O Master, let me walk with thee
  Before the taunting Pharisee;
  Help me to bear the sting of spite,
  The hate of men who hide thy light,
  The sore distrust of souls sincere
  Who cannot read thy judgments clear,
  The dulness of the multitude
  Who dimly guess that thou art good.

  Teach me thy patience; still with thee
  In closer, dearer company,
  In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,
  In trust that triumphs over wrong,
  In hope that sends a shining ray
  Far down the future’s broadening way,
  In peace that only thou canst give,
  With thee, O Master, let me live!

WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

III.

FAITH:  HOPE:  LOVE:  SERVICE.

* * * * *

FAITH.

  O world, thou choosest not the better part! 
  It is not wisdom to be only wise,
  And on the inward vision close the eyes,
  But it is wisdom to believe the heart. 
  Columbus found a world, and had no chart,
  Save one that faith deciphered in the skies;
  To trust the soul’s invincible surmise
  Was all his science and his only art. 
  Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine
  That lights the pathway but one step ahead
  Across a void of mystery and dread. 
  Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine
  By which alone the mortal heart is led
  Unto the thinking of the thought divine.

GEORGE SANTAYANA.

* * * * *

THE FIGHT OF FAITH.

[The author of this poem, one of the victims of the persecuting Henry VIII., was burnt to death at Smithfield in 1546.  It was made and sung by her while a prisoner in Newgate.]

  Like as the armed Knighte,
  Appointed to the fielde. 
  With this world wil I fight,
  And faith shal be my shilde.

  Faith is that weapon stronge,
  Which wil not faile at nede;
  My foes therefore amonge,
  Therewith wil I precede.

  As it is had in strengthe,
  And forces of Christes waye,
  It wil prevaile at lengthe,
  Though all the devils saye naye.