Sing at the cottage bedside :
Carry sweet music there,
Let the voice of praise arise
After the voice of prayer;
Sing of the gentle Saviour
In the simplest hymns you know,
And the pain-dimmed eye will lighten
As the soothing verses flow.
Better than loudest plaudits
The murmured thanks of such,
For the King will stoop to crown them With His gracious "Inasmuch."
Sing to the tired and anxious:
It is yours to fling a ray,
Passing indeed, but cheering
Across the rugged way.
Sing to God's holy servants,
Weary with loving toil,
Spent with their faithful labour
On oft ungrateful soil.
The chalice of your music
All reverently bear,
For with the blessed angels
Such ministry you share.
When you long to bear the message
Home to some troubled breast,
Then sing with loving fervour,
"Come unto Him and rest;"
Or would you whisper comfort
Where words bring no relief,
Then sing, "He was despised:
Acquainted with our grief."
And, aided by His blessing,
The song may win its way
Where speech had no admittance,
And change the night to day.
Sing when His many mercies
And marvellous love you feel,
And the deep joy of gratitude
Springs freshly as you kneel;
When words like morning starlight
Melt powerless, rise and sing,
And bring your sweetest music
To Him your gracious King.
Pour out your song before Him
To whom our best is due :
Remember He who hears your prayers
Will hear your praises too.
Sing on, in grateful gladness;
Rejoice in "this good thing"
Which the Lord thy God hath given thee,—
The happy power to sing;
But yield to HIM, the Sovereign
To whom all things belong,
In fullest consecration
Your ministry of song,
Until His mercy grant you
That resurrection voice
Whose only ministry shall be
To praise Him and rejoice.
The Still Waters of the Valley.
HEIR source is on the mountains,—
The streams of which we drink;
But we must tread the valleys
If we would reach their brink.
Their source is on the mountains,
Higher than feet can go;
Yet human lips but touch them
In the valleys still and low.
Beyond the fields and forests,
Beyond the homes of men,
Beyond the wild goat's refuge,
Beyond the eagle's ken,-
Beyond the oldest glaciers,
Beyond the loftiest snows,
Beyond the farthest summit
Where earliest morning glows.
Still climbing, ever climbing
To reach the streams we love ; Their music ever with us,
Their source is still above, Beyond heaven's heights of glory, As beyond earth's heights of snow,Yet can our lips but taste them In the valleys still and low.
Once, when the heavenly voices
Seemed to call me on their track,
I wondered why some hindrance
Still drew my footsteps back:
Some feeble steps to succour,
Some childish feet to lead,
Some wandering lambs to gather,
Some hungered ones to feed;
Some call of lowly duty,
With low, resistless tone;
Some weight of others' burdens,
Some burden of my own;
But now, though heavenly voices
Still bid my spirit soar
While my feet tread lowly places,
I wonder thus no more.
Their source is on the mountains,—
The streams of which we drink;
But only in the valleys
Our lips can reach their brink.
Our hearts are on the mountains,
Whither our feet shall go;
But our path is in the valleys
Where the still waters flow.
By the Author of the
"Schonberg-Cotta Family."
"At Ebening-Time there shall be Light."
ROM each day's care we gladly flee,
To find, O Lord, our rest in Thee;
Our burden to Thy feet we bring,
Our sin to mercy's healing spring.
We know that at Thy gracious voice
The outgoings of the eve rejoice;
To us, assembled in Thy sight,
At evening-time may there be light.
|