The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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| Table of Contents | |
| Section | Page |
| Start of eBook | 1 |
| THE MOUNTAIN SPRING | 1 |
| GO WANDER | 1 |
| THE LILIES | 1 |
| TELL PETER | 2 |
| THE SLEET | 2 |
| ALONE | 3 |
| NO OTHER | 3 |
| WEALTH | 4 |
| THE CAPTIVES | 4 |
| THE LIVING WATER | 4 |
| JESUS INTERCEDES | 5 |
| EVE’S FLOWERS | 6 |
| NOVEMBER | 6 |
| THE TRAVELERS | 7 |
| GONE | 8 |
| O BETHLEHEM! | 9 |
| RING THE BELLS | 9 |
| MUSINGS | 11 |
| BARTIMAEUS | 11 |
| APRIL | 13 |
| NATURE’S LESSON | 13 |
| MINISTERING WOMEN | 14 |
| THAT JEWISH LAD | 16 |
| IN SINCERITY | 16 |
| THEY’RE COMING! | 17 |
And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.—Revelation 22:17.
I wandered down a mountain
road,
Past flower and
rock and lichen gray,
Alone with nature and her
God
Upon a flitting
summer day.
The forest skirted to the
edge
Of Capon river,
Hampshire’s gem,
Which, bathing many a primrose
ledge,
Oft sparkled like
a diadem.
At length a silvery spring
I spied,
Gurgling through
moss and fern along,
Waiting to bless with cooling
tide
All who were gladdened
by its song.
Oh, who would pass with thirsting
lip
And burning brow,
this limpid wave?
Who would not pause with joy
and sip?
Its crystal depths
who would not crave?
This query woke a voice within—
Why slight the
spring of God’s great love,
That fount that cleanseth
from all sin,
Our purchase paid
by Christ above?
Whoever will may drink!
Oh, why,
Worn toilers in
this earthly strife,
Reject a mansion in the sky,
Reject heaven’s
bliss and endless life?
Go, wander, little book,
Nor let thy wand’ring
cease;
May all who on these pages
look
From sin find sweet release,
Through Christ, God’s
holy son,
Who left his throne in heaven
And e’en death’s
anguish did not shun
That we might be forgiven.
How should our thoughts and
deeds
Exalt this mighty friend,
Who died, yet lives and intercedes
And loves us to the end!
LOVE
For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.—Ephesians 2:8.
Christ might have called the
angels down
To bear him safe above,
To shield his brow from sorrow’s
crown,
From death’s cold blight,
and bitter frown,
Had it not been for love.
Our glorious King, our Prince
of Peace,
Has left his throne above
To give our souls from sin
release,
To make our pain and anguish
cease,
And all because of love.
By faith in him, we all may
see
In realms of light above,
Through streams of blood on
Calvary,
A joyful immortality;—
The purchase price was love.
Consider the lilies.—Luke 2:27.
Emblems of Christ our Lord,
Roses and lilies fair,
These flowers in His word,
His glory seem to share.
The lilies of the field,
Sweet teachers of the soul,
Which will their lessons yield
Long as the seasons roll,
They neither toil nor spin,
Exist without a care,
And yet no earthly king can
win
A garb so chaste and rare.
Frozen, they burst to life,
To nature’s minstrelsy—
A resurrection type
Of immortality.
And Simon Peter stood and warmed himself.—John 18:25.
Peter, it was not outward
cold
But inward chill thy bosom
froze,
Made thee deny with falsehood
bold
Thy Lord and Master to his
foes.
When we find cheer at Satan’s
fires
The world is there to work
us harm,
To deaden all our pure desires
With its deceitful lure and
charm.
Peter, the voice of chanticleer
Fulfilled what Christ had
prophesied;
And oh, that pitying look
sincere
From him whom thou hadst just
denied!
Thy burst of penitential grief!
Heaven those tears did surely
send.
Tears give the burdened heart
relief;
Dry anguish may its tendrils
rend.
Sin soon will crucify our
Lord,
Thy sin, and all the world’s
beside.
He gave himself, the Living
Word,
Our shelter from God’s
wrath to hide.
Had all the seraphs pens to
write
Such love upon the boundless
sky,
Angelic powers could not indite
Its greatness while the ages
fly.
The hour is hastening.
God has willed
That Christ should through
his own decree
Abolish death and have fulfilled
Our blood-bought immortality.
And when the awful tomb he
rent,
When freed from every earthly
thrall,
“Tell Peter” was
the message sent;
“Tell Peter”—’tis
love’s tender call.
Peter was martyr to his faith;
His rock, God’s son
whom he denied;
This faith the key that unlocks
death
To realms where joy and peace
abide.
“Tell Peter!”
Honey drops of love,
Awaking all the choirs of
heaven!
“Tell Peter”—angels
from above
Shout, “Hear, O earth,
and be forgiven!”
Regal the earth seems with
diamonds today,
Gemming all nature in blazing
array;
A picture more fairy-like
never could be
Than this wonderful icicle
filigree.
A crystallized world!
What a marvelous sight,
Gorgeous and grand in the
March sunlight!
The frost-king magician has
changed the spring showers
To turquois and topaz and
sapphire bowers.
And what is the lesson we
learn from the sleet,
As toiling life’s road
with wearying feet,
Upward we strive, but failing
so oft
In the struggles that bear
us aright and aloft?
’Tis this—that
the hard breath of winter’s chill blast
Alone can this mantle of loveliness
cast;
And thus our sharp winds of
trial may prove
Angels to weave us bright
garments of love.
ANSWERED
Ye realms of beauty from afar,
What speak ye to the saddened
soul?
What is the message of each
star
As ever ceaselessly ye roll?
Thus do ye answer: “We
declare
God’s glory; and to
you ’tis given
To cast on him your every
care,
For he hath wound the clock
of heaven.”
Ye hoary hills which have
looked down
On all the centuries of time,
Have felt their touch without
a frown,
And with indifference sublime,
What would ye speak, if understood,
Of life with all its woes
and ills?
’Tis this: to all
they work for good
Who love the maker of the
hills.
Genesis 28:10-22.
The sun had set. He was
alone;
Mid twilight shadows he would
rest.
He laid his head upon a stone
To woo sweet slumber for his
guest.
Perhaps within those midnight
hours
His rugged bed was cold and
chill,
But wrapped in Dreamland’s
mystic powers,
He knew no danger, felt no
ill.
A vision in his dreams appeared!
Angels were stepping to and
fro
Upon a ladder which, upreared,
Aided their ministry below.
And then God spake in words
which said
What future ages would unfold,
The soil on which he made
his bed
Was his, by prophecy foretold.
He further heard that holy
voice
Predict that through his tribe
would be
Blessings in which all should
rejoice,
Blessings which all the world
should see.
Through Jacob would the gift
be given
Of Jesus to this sinful earth;
God signified within this
vision
Glad news of our Redeemer’s
birth;
The star of Bethlehem would
shine,
That star of joy and peace
and love,
Our bleeding sacrifice divine
To cleanse our hearts, our
guilt remove.
If faith and praise in us
abound
Toward Israel’s God,
angels are near;
His word declares they camp
around
All those who look to him
in fear.
When Jacob woke, the ground
he trod
Seemed holy; and he named
his stone
“Bethel,” which
means “the house of God.”
With heaven so near, was he
alone?
Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved.—Acts 4:12.
Swiftly we float upon time’s
tide
Adown the stream of years.
Sometimes past hills of joy
we glide,
Sometimes through vales of
tears.
Age follows youth, which,
ere we know,
Has vanished like a dream,
And takes its glamour from
the glow
Of mem’ry’s silvery
gleam.
There is no halt; and more
and more
There seems an open sea
Reaching us with its ceaseless
roar—
It is eternity.
There is one Pilot that we
need,
One who can safely steer,
One who at heaven’s
court can plead,
And all our journey cheer.
’Tis Jesus Christ; and
all who see
In him the truth, the way,
Are in possession of the key
To heaven’s eternal
day.
He heapeth up riches and knoweth not who shall gather them.—Psalm 39:6.
O soul, it is not thine,
But lent to thee in trust
That thou may’st make
God’s glory shine,
Secured from moth and rust.
Thou can’st not take
one mite
Except as thou dost give
And waft it in the golden
light
Where heaven’s glories
live.
Go look for those in need—
The hungry and the cold.
Kind words and actions are
the seed
Which yield their fruits of
gold.
Give to the heathen world
Knowledge of Christ our Lord;
Pray that his banner be unfurled;
Send forth, his priceless
word.
He lived for us and died,
And intercedes above.
His blood, a sacrificial tide,
Redeems us by his love.
“Barbarian, bond and
free,
The wise and the unwise”—
’Tis ours to give and
theirs to see
Salvation’s blood-bought
prize.
We know not ’neath the
sky
Who’ll gather of our
store,
But if we lay it up on high,
’Tis ours forevermore.
Psalm 137.
Captives by Babel’s
limpid streams,
We hung our harps on willows
there;
Wept over Zion; and our dreams,
Waking or sleeping, she did
share.
Our victors, with their battle
arms,
Derided, jeered, and scorned
our tears;
Required mirth, diversion’s
charms,
To thus allay their guilty
fears.
“Sing us a song”
is their demand,
“Yea, sing us one of
Zion’s songs!”
How can our voices thus expand
To what to us and God belongs?
How can we on this heathen
shore,
Surrounded by idolatry,
Sing songs that unto us are
more
Than all their glittering
pageantry?
Jerusalem, should we forget,
We pray our hearts and tongues
be still!
Jerusalem! Oh, may we
yet
Worship upon thy holy hill.
Babylon, thou art to be destroyed!
Thy doom’s foretold
in prophecy;
And happy be the means employed
To hurl thee to thy destiny.
I that speak unto thee am he.—John 4:26.
She left her home that morn
In fair Samaria’s land,
All heedless of her state
forlorn,
Sin-bound, both heart and
hand.
With prejudicial pride
She scorned the meek request
Of One who sat the well beside,
With heat and thirst opprest.
“Thou art a Jew,”
she said,
“And asketh drink of
me?
Samaria’s daughter was
not bred
To deal with such as thee.”
She would not yield a sip
E’en if its maker sued,
While he from love, with thirsting
lip,
Sought and her heart renewed.
He made her ask for life,
Eternal life through him,
And “living water”
was the type
To her perception dim.
O yes! She fain would
taste
And never thirst again,
And never cross the burning
waste
In weariness and pain!
Her life he questioned now;
Revealed her history.
She must have blushed.
How could he know?
Here was a mystery!
Abashed she now replied,
“Thou art a prophet,
sir!”
And straightway sought with
clannish pride
Instruction’s voice
to hear;
Instruction that will bless
The world each passing day,
For every spot man’s
feet may press,
There may he praise and pray.
The woman lent her ear,
Then urged Messiah’s
plea.
Amazing words she now doth
hear,
“I that speak unto thee
am he.”
What joy! The angels
too
Must share it from above.
She left her water-pot, and
flew
On feet made swift by love.
Oh, will these tidings last?
This news, it must be spread!
“He knows my present,
knows my past;
This is the Christ,”
she said.
That woman lost in sin
Drank of the living spring,
Then swiftly sped dead souls
to win,
And to that fountain bring.
Forbid that we should shrink
To publish grace so free,
For all who will that tide
may drink
And live eternally.
They begged that he would
stay,
Believed the truths unfurled,
And joyfully received that
day
The Saviour of the world.
Seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.—Hebrews 7:25.
When winding up the path of
life,
Sometimes mid thorns, sometimes
mid flowers,
Oft weary of its toil and
strife,
Oft weary of its wintry hours,
There is one thought than
all more sweet
From care my longing heart
to free;
’Tis this—oh,
wondrous to repeat—
That Jesus intercedes for
me.
And always when the path is
steep,
I cling unto this wayside
rope:
Nothing can give so great
relief,
Nothing can give a brighter
hope.
’Tis like a stately
spreading palm,
Which forms my spirit’s
canopy,
’Neath which I breathe
the soothing balm
That Jesus intercedes for
me.
And when I reach the sea of
death,
To sail its silent waters
o’er,
This thought shall calm my
latest breath
And waft me to the golden
shore.
Not only that my Savior died,
The atoning lamb on Calvary,
But—was there ever
love so wide?—
Still lives and intercedes
for me.
Eve must have wept to leave
her flowers,
And plucked some roots to
tell
Of Eden’s happy, sinless
bowers,
Where she in bliss did dwell.
Roses and lilies, pansies
gay,
Violets with azure eyes,
Her favorites must have been,
for they
Seem born in paradise.
And when they drooped, did
she not sigh
And kiss their petals fair,
Thinking, “Alas, ye
too must die
And in our sorrow share”?
And then perhaps unto her
soul
This answer sweet was given,
“Like you we fade and
perish here;
For you we’ll bloom
in heaven.”
Roses and lilies are the type
Of him who from above,
The lamb of God, gave up his
life,
A sacrifice of love.
He was her hope in those sad
hours
Of blight and sure decay;
The sin that drove her from
her flowers
His blood could wash away.
COME UNTO ME
“Come unto me!”
Ah, gentlest word
E’er breathed in human
ear!
“I am thy Savior and
thy Lord;
Dear child, thou need’st
not fear.
“Come unto me in sorrow’s
hour
When life seems dark and drear;
I’ll shield thee from
the tempter’s power;
Dear child, thou need’st
not fear.
“Come unto me when hopes
have flown
Like leaves wind-swept and
sere,
When every joy thou may’st
bemoan;
Dear child, thou need’st
not fear.
“Come unto me.
I’ll give thee rest,
Will wipe away each tear;
Come lean thy head upon my
breast;
Dear child, thou need’st
not fear.”
But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice.—Psalm 5:11.
November is so drear and chill
Whilst making leafless branch
and tree,
Whilst sweeping over vale
and hill
With all her doleful minstrelsy.
November wails the summer’s
death
In such a melancholy voice,
She has a withering, blighting
breath;
She does not bid the heart
rejoice.
Yet why repine, thou stricken
one?
Grief is the common fate of
all.
This the refrain beneath the
sun:
Mortals must die, and leaves
must fall.
They’ll live again,
the leaves and flowers,
When spring returns to bless
the earth;
They’ll waken ’neath
her sunny hours
Through nature’s touch
to beauteous birth.
Hope in decay and do not moan
That God has taken one we
love:
Why should our hearts be turned
to stone
When he is safe in heaven
above?
Redeemed through Christ, who
was his trust,
With him in realms of joy
on high;
For though down here “’tis
dust to dust,”
The Christian lives beyond
the sky.
Then in the autumn’s
woe rejoice,—
Rejoice in calm, rejoice in
storm;
In either hear God’s
tender voice,
For both his holy will perform.
Away from the city, away from
the crowd,
Two comrades in sorrow traversed
hill and dale;
The gloom of their hearts
did their faces enshroud,
And clouds of distress only
seemed to prevail.
Alone, as they thought; but
a stranger unknown
Inquired thus kindly the cause
of their woe:
“Of what are ye talking?
Why are ye cast down,
So burdened with care, as
thus onward ye go?”
Cleopas thus answered, “A
stranger art thou
In Jerusalem, not knowing
the things happening there?”
“What things?”
asked the stranger, desiring now
Their lips should disclose
what had caused their despair.
“Of Jesus of Nazareth,
one mighty in deed,
A wonderful prophet; him have
they slain.
To Israel’s redemption
we hoped he would lead,
But why should we hope if
hope is in vain?
“Some women who went
to the sepulcher say
That angels assured them he’s
living this hour,
But they did not see him,
and try as we may,
It seems a false rumor of
glory and power.”
The stranger rebuked them
ere he would teach
What the prophets portray
of Christ’s sufferings here.
Their souls were enlivened,
but soon they would reach
The village they sought, which
too quickly drew near.
The stranger seemed passing,
but now they entreat,
“Abide with us here;
the day is far spent”;
They could not forego yet
such fellowship sweet,
And he entered in with them
whither they went.
When supper was ready, they
sat up to partake—
They and the stranger, in
whom they delight.
He blessed, as his custom,
the bread ere he brake;
They knew it was Jesus!
And he vanished from sight.
“Did not our hearts
burn within us,” now they exclaimed,
“As he taught of himself
what the prophets record?
We’ve seen him, we’ve
heard him, and he is the same:
He is Israel’s Messiah,
our Savior and Lord!”
We are travelers here on the
highway of time,
But he will go with us if
we seek him aright.
His strength will support
us as upward we climb;
Through his blood we inherit
immortality’s light.
DAYBREAK
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away.—Song of Solomon 4:6.
Gleaming softly, silvery-faint,
Heralded by chanticleer,
Merging from night’s
shadowy taint,
New day of the passing year!
Born to bless or born to blight,
Born for you and born for
me,
Leaving, ere it take its flight,
Impress on eternity!
’Tis a gift from God’s
own hand.
On its pure unsullied page
Let us write at his command
What will bless our pilgrimage.
True repentance giveth joy
To the angels in the sky.
What could be more blest employ
Than to cheer the choirs on
high?
Deeds of patience, deeds of
love,
Banishing all hate and guile—
These will steer toward heaven
above,
These will make the angels
smile.
May this child of time unite
Earth and heaven in blest
accord,
Heathen nations see the light
From the cross of Christ our
Lord.
Coming is the glad daybreak,
The prophetic jubilee;
Sin will then all hearts forsake,
Then will all the shadows
flee.
Upon time’s surging,
billowy sea
A ship now slowly disappears,
With freight no human eye
can see,
But weighing just one hundred
years.
Their sighs, their tears,
their weary moans,
Their joy and pleasure, pomp
and pride,
Their angry and their gentle
tones,
Beneath its waves forever
hide.
Yes, sunk within oblivion’s
waves,
They’ll partly live
in memory;
To youth, who will their secrets
crave,
Mostly exist in history.
Ah, what a truth steps in
this strain—
They are not lost within time’s
sea;
Their words and actions live
again,
And blight or light eternity!
A new ship comes within our
view,
Laden with dreams both sad
and blest;
To youth they’re tinged
with roseate hue;
To weary ones bring longed-for
rest.
And still the stream of life
flows on,
Laughing beneath the century
new.
God’s promise gilds
the horizon;
Mercy shall reign; his word
is true.
AWAKE!
All my ways are before thee.—Psalm 119:168.
Awake, O soul, awake!
Enter thy cell of thought,
And there in calmness meditate
On what God’s word has
taught.
There’s nought within
thy scope,
No influence thou hast sown,
No gloomy doubt, no joyful
hope,
But unto him are known.
Awake! but grovel not
In ashes of despair,
Christ’s precious blood
can cleanse each spot;
Cast on him every care.
Before him are thy ways,
But in his mercy free
He further yet his love displays,
And intercedes for thee.
Awake to holy fear
And praise thy God on high;
Be it thy joy to praise him
here
And praise him in the sky.
“ABIDE WITH US”
“Abide with us!”
Where could we go?
Thou art our strength, thou
art our tower,
Our refuge from the ills below,
In darkness light, in weakness
power.
“Abide with us!”
We would prevail,
And plead that thou be ever
near
To banish doubts when they
assail,
And give deliverance from
fear.
“Abide with us”
in words of love,
For thou dost say, “Come
unto me.”
Oh, guide us to thy home above
To dwell in joy and peace
with thee!
“For he is our peace.”
O Bethlehem, where Christ
was born
And angels watched him where
he lay,
When cradled on that holy
morn
That ushered in earth’s
promised day!
O Bethlehem, it was thy star
Which guided o’er the
deserts wild
Those who had journeyed from
afar
To gaze upon the sinless child!
O Bethlehem, ’twas thine
to see
God’s choir announce
the Saviour’s birth,
And hear those waves of melody
Chant peace and good will
to the earth!
O Bethlehem, ’twas thine
to weep
With Rachel o’er the
crimson woe
When cruel hands did vainly
seek
To quench heaven’s radiance
below!
O Bethlehem, we hear thy call
To joy and bliss, and would
not cease
To praise him who has died
for all
Who will accept his blood-bought
peace!
Ring out the bells of heaven!
Obey the great command,
That all may hear their melody
On mountain, sea, and land,
The chimes of glory sounding,
Ascending to the sky;
Jesus our Savior reigneth
Forever more on high.
Ring how he bore our trials
And sorrows here below;
Of his lamb-like, sinless
nature,
Purer than falling snow;
How he gave his life to banish
The clouds of midnight gloom
That brooded o’er creation
And o’er the dreary
tomb.
Ring of the well of Sichar
And the everlasting tide,
With which its sparkling waters
His imagery supplied.
Ring of his mighty power
To comfort and to heal,
His gentleness and sympathy
In either woe or weal.
Ring of his blood that speaketh
Than Abel’s, better
things,
And to the guilty conscience
Sweet peace and pardon brings.
Ring how he burst death’s
fetters
In rising from the grave,
And from its lasting bondage
Will all his people save.
Ring how he intercedeth
And ever lives above
For all who trust and serve
him,
Rejoicing in his love;
Of the many mansions he’s
prepared
Of everlasting rest,
Whose joys no tongue can utter
Nor tell how glad and blest.
Awake, then, to your duty,
O church of Christ, awake!
Behold the beauty of their
feet
Who the glad tidings take!
Reach out and ring the bells
of heaven;
Blest be the hands that give
The truth, that all who listen
May hope and joy and live!
Ah, ’tis a wondrous
story!
Good news to all the world!
The gospel means glad tidings
Wherever ’tis unfurled.
Great God, impart thy Spirit
That all who love their Lord
May see in life a flitting
hour
To obey and speak his word.
THE DESERT SPRING
“Oh, no, my lord, she
cannot stay;
Cast out this bond maid with
her mocking child,
For they cannot be heirs with
thine and mine.”
Abraham was sad, for he had
prayed, “O God,
That Ishmael may dwell within
thy sight!”
And now the message came to
him, “Fear not!
In all that Sarah says list
to her voice.
In Isaac shall thy seed be
called. Also
I’ll make of Hagar’s
son a nation great,
Because he sprang from thee.”
Then
Abraham rose
At early dawn, and lading
Egypt’s child
With water and with bread,
sent her grief-worn
With Ishmael to wander lone
within
Beersheba’s wilderness.
While yet the air
Was cool, and nature locked
in the embrace
Of morn, likely the child
was blithe and gay,
Unheeding the sad face and
drooping form
Of her who doubtless turned
from childhood’s tents
In tears of woe.
Thrilled
with his Arab blood
He raced along; and thus to
fancy’s ear
He prattled on: “O
mother, do not weep!
The Princess Sarah cannot
chide us now.
We’re free! I love
the wilderness! I love
The earth and sky! Look
at those birds,
Far as the fleecy clouds!
And here
Are flowers with which to
wreathe my bow.
With it I’ll bring thee
deer and fowl to dress,
When by and by we reach a
babbling stream
Where we may safely dwell.”
On,
still on,
Through arid plains, with
blistering feet,
Beneath a burning sky, they
toil along.
The lad no longer talks of
birds and flowers,
But begs for water—water
just to cool
His parching throat; and likely
’twas that when
Noon’s shadows mirrored
the encircling hills,
He saw the empty flask, and
must at last
Have fainted on the scorching
sand.
We
read
That Hagar cast him ’neath
a shrub, and then,
Withdrawing quite a space,
she prayed, “O God,
Let me not see his death!”
and so sank down
Upon the ground to watch him
where he lay,
And wept such tears as touched
the world on high
With sympathy divine.
God heard the lad,
And from his radiant home
an angel spake:
Water!—a
type of Christ,
God’s son, that whosoever
will may drink
That everflowing stream of
love and live
Eternally! The angel’s
prophecy foretold
Those countless hordes, those
tented caravans,
Whose graceful steeds have
plied through centuries past
Those barren, trackless wastes;
some of the men
Who, Egypt-bound with spicery
and balm,
Halted beside the lonely pit,
and bartered there
For that young lad whose coat
dyed in the blood
Of kids, made Jacob with wild
agony exclaim,
“This is my Joseph’s
coat! He has, no doubt,
Been rent in twain by beasts!”
The
wanderers soon
Lay down to rest, ’neath
starry skies to wait
Another dawn, and on the mother’s
face
There must have been a light
of joy divine;
For had she not held intercourse
with Heaven?
Were not its guardian bands
around them then
In desert weird and wild?
Ye
weary souls,
Tired travelers on the sands
of time,
Trust God and look to him
for strength!
The angel of his word speaks
faith and peace,
And presses to the thirsting
lip the cup
Of immortality!
“Childhood and youth are vanity.”
Often o’er life’s
pathway straying
Come sweet strains of long
ago,
To the chords of memory playing
Music sweet and music low.
When upon the gray rock musing
’Neath the tree by childhood’s
home,
In the wild bird’s note
so soothing
Tenderly these strains will
come.
Gazing on the deep fringed
mountain,
Distance robing it in blue,
Quaffing the familiar fountain,
Each repeats the story too.
Wandering by the streamlet
flowing
Where we played in hours of
glee,
Hear its murmurs coming, going,
Tell of joys that used to
be.
Wandering in the leafy wildwood
Sometimes in our leisure hours,
In the sunny days of childhood
How much fairer seemed its
flowers!
Watching from the hill the
sunset
’Neath the spreading
chestnut tree,
Youthful dreams and visions
come yet
Through the years so magically.
Yet how vain these memories
olden
If they do not teach the truth
That within the city golden
Only, dwells perpetual youth.
“What means this throng?”
a blind man said,
Whilst begging by the highway
side;
Begging and blind, and lacking
bread,
His ears discern the living
tide.
“Jesus of Nazareth passeth
by,”
Was answered. Had he
heard aright?
Oh, was the heavenly healer
nigh,
He who could give the blind
their sight?
“Jesus, have mercy!”
lo, he cried,
“Oh, son of David, pity
me!”
And when the jeering crowd
deride,
His accents form a clearer
plea.
Jesus stood still. A
kindly voice
Bade him good cheer—“He
calleth thee.”
Thus must his lonely heart
rejoice,
“He thinks of me; yes,
even me!”
Bartimaeus found the Living
Light
Who asked and granted his
request.
His blinded eyes received
their sight;
With joy he followed with
the rest.
How oft when Jesus passes
by,
The heart-blind hear but don’t
perceive,
Else how they would for mercy
cry
Ere Christ their Lord should
take his leave!
Like him of whom this story’s
told
They’d pray, “Lord
Jesus, pity me!”
And find his power and love
could fold
Them here and in eternity.
ZACCHAEUS
Jesus entered and passed through Jericho.—Luke 19:1-10.
City of palms! whose ancient
name
Suggests a line
of scarlet hue,
Type of thy glorious Guest
who came
And passed with
crowds thy borders through,
Did aught foretell that on
that day,
The Lord of life
would favor thee,
And centuries ring the novel
way
A soul was made
both glad and free?
Zacchaeus knew that through
thy gates
Came One he oft
had longed to see;
Alas! how adverse were the
fates—
So dense the throng,
so small was he!
Considering, he ran before
And climbed into
a wayside tree,
And ever since the sycamore
Is blended with
his history.
While peering eagerly below,
Above the tumult
of the town
That soothing voice to mortal
woe
Bade him to hasten
quickly down.
“Come,” Jesus
said, “I must abide
And tarry at thy
house with thee.”
Zacchaeus the honor swift
applied,
And entertained
him joyfully.
The people frowned that Christ
should dine
With a rich sinner
publican,
Nor knew his act of grace
would shine,
A star of hope,
to fallen man.
Zacchaeus assured his royal
guest,
“Lord, half
my goods I give the poor;
And if I falsely have opprest,
Fourfold I unto
men restore.”
His listener reads the human
heart
And all its thoughts
unerringly;
Alone such wisdom can impart
And judge of its
sincerity.
Jesus received this sin-sick
soul,
Salvation to his
house was given;
And while time’s cycles
onward roll,
His faith and
works will point toward heaven.
“I came,” the
Lord of glory said
(Nor did he count
the pain and cost),
“To feed the hungry
soul with bread,
To seek and save
that which was lost.”
When April weeps, she wakes
the flowers
That slept the winter through.
Oh, did they dream those frosty
hours
That she would be untrue
And not awaken them in time
To smile their smiles of love,
To hear the robin’s
merry chime,
And gentle cooing dove?
And when they feel their mother’s
tears
So gently o’er them
weep,
Will they tell her of their
simple fears
And visions while asleep?
And will they tell her that
they dreamed,
Beneath their sheets of snow,
Such weary dreamings that
it seemed
The winter ne’er would
go?
They’ll soon be wide-awake
and up,
In dainty robes arrayed,
Blue violet, gold buttercup,
And quaker-lady staid.
Wild eglantine and clustering
thorn
Will grace the byway lanes,
Whilst woodland flowers the
dells adorn
And daisies cheer the plains.
The rippling streamlet soon
will be
A crystal mirror bright
For waving branch and mint
and tree
That nod in golden light
Of summer sunbeams glad’ning
rays
Filling the heart with love,
While nature and earth, uniting,
praise
The God who reigns above.
In lowly spots will lilies
spring
And scent the summer breeze,
And on the earth there’ll
be no king
Arrayed like one of these.
So weeping April’s tears
will bring
Her children from the tomb,
Will dress the earth in robes
of spring,
Brightened by fragrant bloom.
BETHLEHEM
Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea.—Matthew 2:1.
Bethlehem, where Christ was
born,
Bethlehem, the Christian’s
star!
Bethlehem’s prophetic
morn
Echoed ages from afar.
Where the shepherds heard
the song
Heralding the holy birth,
Tidings that would right the
wrong,
News of joy from heaven to
earth.
This the song the angels sang:
“Peace on earth, good
will to men.”
Glory in the highest rang,
Glory now and glory then.
Christ, the king of earth
and heaven,
Gave himself to cleanse our
sin;
Through his blood we are forgiven
And eternal life may win.
Come to him with every woe;
He has said, “Come unto
me.”
Better refuge none can know
Whither to safely, gladly
flee.
Well may hallelujahs ring
O’er God’s gift
from heaven above;
Yet, although the angels sing,
Angels cannot tell his love.
We traveled by a mountain’s
edge,
It was September calm and
bright,
Nature had decked its rocky
ledge
With flowers of varied hue
and height.
It seemed a miracle that they
Should flourish in that meager
soil,
As noble spirits oftenest
may
Gleam forth through poverty
and toil.
Below were rippling, sparkling
streams
Through meadows kissed by
shadowy hills,
Reflecting autumn’s
peaceful dreams
Within those swift, translucent
rills.
This lesson should these scenes
impart
As on the road of life we
go,
To do our duty and take heart,
As flowers bloom and streamlets
flow.
Perhaps in ages yet to be
May flowers wave here e’en
as today,
These streams still rush in
merry glee
To cheer and charm who here
may stray;
But we upon Time’s rapid
tide
Like morning mists will disappear;
But if by faith to Christ
allied,
Heaven’s glory is both
sure and clear.
We look from Nature to her
God;
We feel his presence from
above;
We know that when the earth
he trod,
He preached through her his
wondrous love.
What is there in our flitting
years
With this pure treasure can
compare?
His love can wipe away our
tears,
His love can lighten every
care.
THE MIGRATORY SWANS
A necklace in the depth of
blue
Of scintillating, silvery
pearls,
Which peering eagerly we view
As gracefully it curves and
whirls,
Safely and swiftly, far away
They seek the groves of date
and lime;
Naught can arrest and naught
dismay
From heights so lofty and
sublime.
In dreams alone their wintry
home
Can haunt them with its ice
and snow;
Mingled with visions as they
come
Of shimmering waves where
lilies grow
And open lakes are fresh and
clear,
Fit mirror for a plumaged
breast,
Shaded by moss-grown trees.
’Tis here
They’ll dip and dive
in gleeful rest.
Vanished! and vainly do we
try
To trace upon the distant
air
That scroll which written
on the sky
Told of the hand which led
them there.
Could we upon our heavenward
way
From tempting snares as far
remove
And be as disenthralled as
they,
We’d plainer show a
guiding love.
We skim too closely to the
earth,
We press too slowly for the
prize,
Let thoughts and cares of
trivial worth
Retard our journey to the
skies.
Oh, let us watch and pray
to have
A loftier flight from transient
things,
Inspired like swans at last
to lave
In streams of bliss our wearied
wings!
And Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna and many others who ministered unto him of their substance.—Luke 8:3. Mark 14:3-9. John 12:3-8. Matthew 26:6-13. Luke 7:37-50. John 11:3.
Those women who their Christ
and Lord
Aided by gentle ministry,
Have gained their race a rich
reward,
Treasured in sacred history.
Joanna is unknown at court,
Although entitled to be there;
The record of her life’s
report
In fadeless glory has its
share.
Susanna’s name is intertwined,
A gem as sparkling and as
clear
As those with which it is
enshrined;
And this is all we know of
her.
And those whose names have
not been given
Are now in realms of light
and love,
Praising him mid the choirs
of heaven,
Crowned with his joy and peace
and love.
Mary of Magdala was brought
From mysteries strange and
dark and drear
To heights with joy and gladness
fraught;
She radiates a luster clear.
Those chimes from Bethany
will ring
With power that will not,
cannot die;
Martha’s and Mary’s
names will sing
Long as the flitting centuries
fly.
That spikenard, which ’twas
wholly meet
Mary should pour upon his
head,
Has filled with fragrance
rare and sweet
Succeeding ages as they’ve
fled.
And when a critic standing
near
Censured her act, misunderstood,
Christ spoke so that the world
might hear;
He said, “She hath done
what she could.”
This her memorial while the
sun
Traverses the blue dome of
heaven,
Fulfilling while time’s
cycles run
Christ’s prophecy which
then was given.
Unto the end these faithful
few,
Regardless of all pain and
loss,
Did what their hearts and
hands could do,
Though bowed with wonder at
the cross.
Such love they could not understand,
Such love unto his latest
breath;
That love had our redemption
planned
Both in his life and in his
death.
They haunt the tomb in which
he lay,
Grief-stricken, desolate,
and lone;
But Magdalene at break of
day
Found that her precious charge
was gone.
Two angels said, “Why
weepest thou?”
The angels knew ere they inquired.
They knew her heart could
triumph now,
These sinless ones by love
inspired.
She, weeping, told her loss
and woe,
Then answered thus a questioner
near:
“Sir, if thou dost his
refuge know,
Tell me. I seek him vainly
here.”
“Mary!” She listened
to her name
Uttered by Christ, her risen
Lord.
“Master?” her
trembling lips exclaim,
Then wondered, worshipped,
and adored.
Her joy is ours! Oh,
may we see
That joy more plainly every
day!
Christ lives and loves eternally,—
Swift feet such tidings should
convey.
Eternal life and heavenly
rest
He purchased by death’s
agony,
That whosoever will be blest
With glorious immortality.
May we our sisters of the
past
In life and character revere,
Like them be faithful to the
last,
Like them be loving and sincere.
First must the gospel plan
of love
To every land and tribe be
given,
Ere He’ll return who
from above
Is God’s best gift to
earth from heaven.
There is a lad here which hath five barley loaves, and two small fishes.—John 6:9.
He must have been a thoughtful
youth,
His name the record has not
given,
But if his heart imbibed the
truth,
’Tis written in the
books of heaven.
A cipher in the multitude,
He followed with his meager
store,
And far from his perception
crude
The miracle that made it more.
With loaves and fishes few,
this lad
By power and aid of one divine
Has made the hungry thousands
glad
And God’s providing
power to shine.
When at the midweek hour of
prayer
Ye faithful mourn your number
few,
Pray He who fed that throng
be there
Your faith and vigor to renew.
He will your meek petitions
hear
Which, like those loaves and
fishes small,
Will cause his glory to appear
In showers of blessing that
will fall.
The centuries are sweeping
by,
Bearing their millions gay
and sad,
And wafting those to realms
on high
Who follow with that Jewish
lad.
Grace be with them that love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity.—Ephesians 6:24.
Thou saddened one whose longing
eyes
Seek quickening
thoughts to glean,
Whose views of Christ, the
Heavenly prize,
Clouds often veer
between,
That rapture which may be
expressed
By others constantly
Is not thine own; in truth
confessed,
Where is the mystery?
Ask now these questions of
thy soul:
My heart, is it
sincere?
Do I his holy name extol,
And is He truly
dear?
Like Peter can I, too, record
And urge his earnest
plea,
“Thou knowest all things,
gracious Lord;
Thou knowest I
love Thee”?
There is no music like his
voice:
To this can’st
thou attest?
No message makes thee so rejoice
As “Come
to me and rest”?
If there’s been left
within thine heart
By word or deed
a thorn,
Can prayer extract the cruel
dart
And heal it ere
the morn?
Does prayer cast out disquietude
And every bitter
thought;
All hate and enmity exclude
By Love with patience
fraught?
Or, if perchance there may
be found
A hurt that festers
still,
Is this the balm that soothes
the wound—
“’Twas
needed; ’tis God’s will”?
Is there a saint, however
poor,
However lowly
born,
That earthly treasure could
allure
Thee to mistreat
or scorn?
These queries, are they answered
well?
Then press with
joy toward Heaven,
Filled with that peace tongue
cannot tell,
The sense of sin
forgiven.
Accept your Saviour’s
proffered rest!
Behold! there’s
grace for thee;
All those who love Him now
are blest,—
Love in sincerity.
They’re coming!
And it seems so long
Since sadly autumn laid them
low.
They left us with the robin’s
song,
They left us to the ice and
snow.
They’re coming!
So the March wind saith.
Though singing songs with
icy breath,
He’s chanting of another
May,
He’s chanting of King
Winter’s death.
They’re coming!
’Neath the forest’s mold,
In mossy beds of ferny soil,
Slowly their tiny robes unfold,
Yet do they neither spin nor
toil.
They’re coming!
With their influence pure,
Their emblematic power again
Of him who would our steps
allure
To realms of love, devoid
of pain.
They’re coming!
With the summer’s breeze,
With azure skies and sunny
showers,
With notes of birds and hum
of bees—
Who will not welcome back
the flowers?