boding fears,
From seed with sorrow sown,
In love, obscurity and tears
The richest sheaves are grown.
—Edward Hartley Dewart.
———
"DOE THE NEXTE THYNGE"
From an old English parsonage
Down by the sea,
There came in the twilight
A message to me;
Its quaint Saxon legend
Deeply engraven,
Hath as it seems to me
Teaching for heaven;
And on through the hours
The quiet words ring,
Like a low inspiration,
"Doe the nexte thynge."
Many a questioning,
Many a fear,
Many a doubt,
Hath guiding here.
Moment by moment
Let down from heaven,
Time, opportunity,
Guidance are given.
Fear not to-morrow,
Child of the King;
Trust it with Jesus,
"Doe the nexte thynge."
O He would have thee
Daily more free,
Knowing the might
Of thy royal degree;
Ever in waiting,
Glad for his call,
Tranquil in chastening,
Trusting through all.
Comings and goings
No turmoil need bring:
His all thy future—
"Doe the nexte thynge."
Do it immediately,
Do it with prayer,
Do it reliantly,
Casting all care:
Do it with reverence,
Tracing His hand
Who hath placed it before thee
With earnest command.
Stayed on Omnipotence,
Safe, 'neath his wing,
Leave all resultings,
"Doe the nexte thynge."
Looking to Jesus,
Ever serener,
Working or suffering,
Be thy demeanor!
In the shade of his presence,
The rest of his calm,
The light of his countenance,
Live out thy psalm:
Strong in his faithfulness.
Praise him and sing,
Then as he beckons thee,
"Doe the nexte thynge."
———
ZEAL IN LABOR
Go, labor on; spend and be spent,
Thy joy to do the Father's will;
It is the way the Master went;
Should not the servant tread it still?
Go, labor on; 'tis not for naught;
Thine earthly loss is heavenly gain;
Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not;
The Master praises—what are men?
Go, labor on; your hands are weak;
Your knees are faint, your soul cast down;
Yet falter not; the prize you seek
Is near—a kingdom and a crown!
Toil on, faint not; keep watch, and pray!
Be wise the erring soul to win;
Go forth into the world's highway;
Compel the wanderer to come in.
Toil on, and in thy toil rejoice:
For toil comes rest, for exile home;
Soon shalt thou hear the Bridegroom's voice,
The midnight peal, "Behold, I come!"
—Horatius Bonar.
———
THE EVANGELIST
Walking with Peter, Christ his footsteps set
On the lake shore, hard by Gennesaret,
At the hour when noontide's burning rays down pour.
When they beheld at a mean cabin's door,
A fisher's widow in her mourning clad,
Who, on the threshold seated, silent, sad,
The tear that wet them kept her lids within,
Her child to cradle and her flax to spin;
Near by, behind the fig-trees' leafy screen,
The Master and His friend could see, unseen.
An old man ready for his earthly bed,
A beggar with a jar upon his head,
Came by, and to the mourning spinner there
Said, "Woman, I this vase of milk should bear
Unto a dweller in the hamlet near;
But I am weak and bent with many a year;
More than a thousand paces yet to go
Remain, and, without help, I surely know
I cannot end my task and earn its fee."
The woman rose, and not a word said she,
Without a pause her distaff laid aside,
And left the cradle where the orphan cried,
Took up the jar, and with the beggar went.
"Master, 'tis well to be benevolent,"
Said Peter, "but small sense that woman showed,
In leaving thus her child and her abode
For the chance-comer that first sought her out;
The beggar some one would have found, no doubt,
To ease him of his load upon the way."
The Lord made answer unto Peter, "Nay,
Thy Father, when the poor assists the poorer,
Will keep her cot, and her reward assure her.
She went at once, and wisely did in that."
And Jesus, having finished speaking, sat
Down