What's true and good demands no decoration; It, in and through itself, is great and fair: All ornament is supererogation, Giving false coloring and fictitious air. KINKER, Trans. Anon. CAN Glorying in the Cross. AN nothing settle my uncertain breast, Can my affections find out nothing best, Has earth no mercy? Will no ark of rest Is there no good than which there's nothing higher To bless my full desire, With joys that never change; with joys that ne'er expire ? I wanted wealth, and at my dear request, I wanted mirth to charm my sullen breast; I wanted fame to glorify the rest; My fame flew eagle-high: My joy not fully ripe, but all decayed, Wealth vanished like a shade; My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade. My trust is in the Cross; there lies my rest, Let cold-mouthed Boreas, or the hot-mouthed east, Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best, And join their twisted might; Let showers of thunderbolts dart round and wound me: And troops of fiends surround me: All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound me. FRANCIS QUARLES. Give our Poor Hearts this Spirit HERE was a little lowly upper room THERE Within the walls of proud Jerusalem, Where met a few poor men in grief and gloom Talking of Him who once had walked with them. There came a sound as of a rushing wind, And filled up all the place where they were met, And flaming figures of unwonted kind, Like tongues of fire, upon each brow were set. That was the promise of the Father, come To those who waited, mourning for their Lord; And the closed lips, that were so dead and dumb, Are loosed at once to speak His precious Word. Then all the strangers from afar, who came From Asian shores, from Europe's fairer strands, From Afric's deserts, wondering heard His name Yet, to the lowly and obedient heart, In gentleness and might its breath shall come, Bidding the Christian choose the better part, Stirring with thought of his eternal home. O Lord, ascended! from Thy glory's throne, Grace Drops from Above. MY stock lies dead, and no increase Doth my dull husbandry improve: O let thy graces without cease Drop from above. If still the sun should hide his face, The dew doth ev'ry morning fall: And shall the dew out-strip thy Dove? Death is still working like a mole, Sin is still hammering my heart, Let suppling grace to cross his art, O come; for thou dost know the way: Remove me where I need not say, 'Drop from above.' GEORGE HERBERT. God's Providence o'er us. OD of my life, how good, how wise, GOD Thy judgments to my soul have been! They were but mercies in disguise, The painful remedies of sin : Since first the maze of life I trod, Hast Thou not hedged about my way; My worldly, vain designs withstood, And robbed my passions of their prey, Withheld the fuel from the fire, How oft didst Thou my soul withhold, And blast me in my surest aim; (rust the trendly blow ? My Tomy Now my hours hach rent |