ON THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD.
OMMIT thy way to God,
The weight which makes thee faint; Worlds are to Him no load!
To Him breathe thy complaint,
He, who for winds and clouds
Maketh a pathway free
Through wastes or hostile crowds,
Can make a way for thee.
Thou must in Him be blest,
Ere bliss can be secure;
On His work must thou rest,
If thy work shall endure.
To anxious, prying thought,
And weary, fretting care,
The Highest yieldeth naught;
He giveth all to prayer.
Father! Thy faithful love,
Thy mercy, wise and mild,
Sees what will blessing prove,
Or what will hurt thy child.
And what Thy wise foreseeing
Doth for Thy children choose,
Thou bringest into being,
Nor sufferest them to lose.
All means always possessing,
Invincible in might;
Thy doings are all blessing,
Thy goings are all light.
Nothing Thy work suspending,
No foe can make Thee pause,
When Thou, Thine own defending,
Dost undertake their cause.
Though all the devils throng
Thine onward course to stay,
Thou passest calm along,
Nor swervest from Thy way.
What Thou hast once disposed
And ordered in Thy strength,
Whatever powers opposed,
Must reach its goal at length.
Hope, then, though woes be doubled,
Hope, and be undismayed;
Let not thine heart be troubled,
Nor let it be afraid.
This prison where thou art,
Thy God will break it soon,
And flood with light thy heart
In his own blessed noon.
Up, up! the day is breaking,
Say to thy cares, Good-night!
Thy troubles from thee shaking,
Like dreams in day's fresh light.
Thou wearest not the crown,
Nor the best course canst tell;
God sitteth on the throne,
And guideth all things well.
Trust Him to govern, then!
No king can rule like Him;
How wilt thou wonder, when
Thine eyes no more are dim,
To see these paths which vex thee,
How wise they were and meet;
The works which now perplex thee,
How beautiful, complete!
Faithful the love thou sharest;
All, all is well with thee;
The crown from hence thou bearest,
With shouts of victory.
In thy right hand, to-morrow,
Thy God shall place the palms;
To Him who chased thy sorrow,
How glad will be thy psalms!
TRANSLATED BY MRS. CHARLES.
S the harp-strings only render
All their treasures of sweet sound, All their music, glad or tender, Firmly struck and tightly bound:
So the hearts of Christians owe
Each its deepest, sweetest strain,
To the pressure firm of woe,
And the tension tight of pain.
Spices crushed their pungence yield,
Trodden scents their sweets respire;
Would you have its strength revealed,
Cast the incense in the fire.
Thus the crushed and broken frame
Oft doth sweetest graces yield;
And through suffering, toil, and shame,
From the martyr's keenest flame,
Heavenly incense is distilled.
ADAM OF ST. VICTOR.
TRANSLATED BY MRS. CHARLES.
Y Lord hath taught me how to want
A place wherein to put my head;
While He is mine, I'll be content
To beg or lack my daily bread.
Heaven is my roof, earth is my
Thy love can keep me dry and warm; Christ and Thy bounty are my store; Thy angels guard me from all harm.
Must I forsake the soil and air,
Where first I drew my vital breath?
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