Lord, I would fain be still

And quiet, behind my shield;
But make me to love thy will,
For fear I should ever yield.
Nothing but perfect trust,

And love of thy perfect will,
Can raise me out of the dust,
And bid my fears be still.
Even as now my hands —

So doth my folded will
Lie waiting thy commands,

Without one anxious thrill.
But as with sudden pain

My hands unfold, and clasp, —
So doth my will start up again,

And taketh its old firm grasp.
Lord, fix my eyes upon thee,

And fill my heart with thy love;
And keep my soul till the shadows flee,
And the light breaks forth above.

ANNA WARNER.

V

ONLY ONE STEP.

VAINLY I strive through the darkness to see

The path I must travel, 'tis hidden from me;

Halting, despairingly, kneeling, I say,

“Father, I cannot go; there is no way.”

Lo! as I kneel, at His feet humbly bowed,

My pathway is shown through a break in the cloud, -
No road stretching far, the horizon to meet,
Only one step, lying close at my feet.

"Place my feet in it, O Father above ! Teach me to trust in Thy infinite love!

The way that is hidden from me still Thou knowest; Make me content with the step that Thou showest!"

UNDER THE CROSS.

THE OLIVE LEAF

CANNOT, cannot say —

I

Out of my bruised and breaking heart -
Storm-driven along a thorn-set way,
While blood-drops start

From every pore, as I drag on—
“Thy will, O God, be done.”

I cannot, in the wave

Of my strange sorrow's fierce baptism,
Look up to heaven, with spirit brave
With holy chrism;

And while the whelming rite goes on,
Murmur, "God's will be done."

I thought, but yesterday,

My will was one with God's dear will;
And that it would be sweet to say —
Whatever ill

My happy state should smite upon,
Thy will, my God, be done."

66

Now, faint and sore afraid,
Under my cross — heavy and rude –
My idols in the ashes laid,
Like ashes strewed;

The holy words my pale lips shun
"O God, thy will be done."

JAN. 1, 1862.

Pity my woes, O God! .
And touch my will with thy warm breath;
Put in my trembling hand thy rod,

That quickens death;

That my dead faith may feel thy sun,
And say, "Thy will be done!"'

---

WILLIAM C. RICHARDS

UNDER THE CLOUD.

BEAUTEOUS things of earth!
I cannot feel your worth
To-day.

O kind and constant friend!
Our spirits cannot blend

To-day.

L'

IFE of our life, and Light of all our seeing, How shall we rest on any hope but Thee? What time our souls, to Thee for refuge fleeing,

Long for the home where there is no more sea?

For still this sea of life, with endless wailing, Dashes above our heads its blinding spray, And vanquished hearts, sick with remorse and

failing,

Moan like the waves at set of autumn day.

And ever round us swells the insatiate ocean
Of sin and doubt that lures us to our grave;
When its wild billows, with their mad commotion,
Would sweep us down then only Thou canst

save.

And deep and dark the fearful gloom unlighted
Of that untried and all-surrounding sea,

On whose bleak shore arriving-lone - benighted,
We fall and lose ourselves at last in Thee.

ΤΗ

Yea! in Thy life our little lives are ended,

Into Thy depths our trembling spirits fall; In Thee enfolded, gathered, comprehended,

As holds the sea her waves Thou hold'st us all!

ELIZA SCUDder.

DESIRE.

HOU, who dost dwell alone

Thou, who dost know thine own

Thou to whom all are known

From the cradle to the grave,
Save, oh, save!