Chapter I: Shall Not Want (2)

My Jesus, as thou wilt:
If needy here, and poor,
Give me thy people's bread,
Their portion rich and sure.
The manna of thy word
Let my soul feed upon;
And if all else should fail--
My Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as thou wilt:
If among thorns I go,
Still sometimes here and there
Let a few roses blow.
But thou on earth along
The thorny path hast gone;
Then lead me after thee.
My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt:
Though seen through many a tear,
Let not my star of hope
Grow dim or disappear.
Since thou on earth hast wept
And sorrowed oft alone,
If I must weep with thee,
My Lord, thy will be done.

My Jesus, as thou wilt:
If loved ones must depart
Suffer not sorrow's flood
To overwhelm my heart.
For they are blest with thee,
Their race and conflict won;
Let me but follow them.
My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt:
When death itself draws nigh,
To thy dear wounded side
I would for refuge fly.
Leaning on thee, to go
Where thou before hast gone;
The rest as thou shalt please.
My Lord, thy will be done!

My Jesus, as thou wilt:
All shall be well for me;
Each changing future scene
I gladly trust with thee.
Straight to my home above,
I travel calmly on,
And sing in life or death,
"My Lord, thy will be done."

--Benjamin Schmolke, tr. by J. Borthwick.

GREAT AND SMALL

There is no great nor small in Nature's plan,
Bulk is but fancy in the mind of man;
A raindrop is as wondrous as a star,
Near is not nearest, farthest is not far;
And suns and planets in the vast serene
Are lost as midges in the summer sheen,
Born in their season; and we live and die
Creatures of Time, lost in Eternity.

--Charles Mackay.

GOD'S WILL BE DONE

My God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home, on life's rough way,
O teach me from my heart to say,
"Thy will be done!"

Though dark my path, and sad my lot,
Let me "be still," and murmur not;
O breathe the prayer divinely taught,
"Thy will be done!"

What though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved, no longer nigh,
Submissive still would I reply
"Thy will be done!"

Though thou hast called me to resign
What most I prized, it ne'er was mine;
I have but yielded what was thine;
"Thy will be done!"

Should grief or sickness waste away
My life in premature decay;
My Father! still I strive to say,
"Thy will be done!"

Let but my fainting heart be blest
With thy sweet Spirit for its guest;
My God! to thee I leave the rest:
"Thy will be done!"

Renew my will from day to day!
Blend it with thine; and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
"Thy will be done!"

Then, when on earth I breathe no more
The prayer oft mixed with tears before,
I'll sing upon a happier shore:
"Thy will be done!"

--Charlotte Elliott.

THE TWO ANGELS

All is of God! If he but wave his hand,
The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,
Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his;
Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er;
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against his messengers to shut the door?

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

AMEN!

I cannot say,
Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day,
I joy in these;
But I can say
That I had rather walk this rugged way,
If _Him_ it please.

I cannot feel
That all is well when darkening clouds conceal
The shining sun;
But then I know
God lives and loves, and say, since it is so,
_Thy will be done_.

I cannot speak
In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek
Show I am sad:
But I can speak
Of _grace_ to suffer with submission meek
Until made glad.

I do not see
Why God should e'en permit some things to be,
When _He is love_;
But I can see,
Though often dimly, through the mystery
His hand above!

I do not know
Where falls the seed that I have tried to sow
With greatest care;
But I _shall know_
The meaning of each waiting hour below
_Sometime, somewhere_!

I do not look
Upon the present, nor in Nature's book,
To read my fate;
But I _do look_
For _promised blessings_ in God's holy Book;
And _I can wait_.

I may not try
To keep the hot tears back--but hush that sigh,
"It might have been";
And try to still
Each rising murmur, and to _God's sweet will_
Respond "_Amen!_"

--Miss Ophelia G. Browning.

AS HE WILLS

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they're needful for the flower;
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

Can loving children e'er reprove,
With murmurs, whom they trust and love?
Creator! I would ever be
A trusting, loving child to thee:
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

O ne'er will I at life repine--
Enough that thou hast made it mine;
When falls the shadow cold of death
I yet will sing with parting breath,
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done.

--Sarah Flower Adams.

ACCORDING TO THY WILL

If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
That the next sun
Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
For any one,
All the fight fought, all the short journey through,
What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
But just go on
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter
Aught that is gone;
But rise, and move, and love, and smile, and pray
For one more day.

And lying down at night, for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear
Which harkens ever, "Lord, within thy keeping,
How should I fear?
And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still,
Do thou thy will."

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
My soul would lie
All night long; and when the morning splendor
Flashed o'er the sky,
I think that I could smile--could calmly say,
"It is his day."

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder
Held out a scroll
On which my life was writ, and I with wonder
Beheld unroll
To a long century's end its mystic clew--
What should I do?

What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master!
Other than this,
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
Nor fear to miss
The road, although so very long it be,
While led by thee?

Step by step, feeling thee close beside me,
Although unseen;
Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee
Or heavens serene,
Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray,
Thy love decay.

I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth
Thy counsels wise;
Along the path no deepening shadow stealeth;
No voice replies
To all my questioning thought the time to tell,
And it is well.

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
Thy will always;
Through a long century's ripe fruition
Or a short day's;
Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
If thou come late!

--Susan Coolidge.

God's in his heaven,
All's right with the world.

--Robert Browning.

WHAT PLEASETH GOD

What pleaseth God with joy receive;
Though storm-winds rage and billows heave
And earth's foundations all be rent,
Be comforted; to thee is sent
What pleaseth God.

God's will is best; to this resigned,
How sweetly rests the weary mind!
Seek, then, this blessed conformity,
Desiring but to do and be
What pleaseth God.

God's thoughts are wisest; human schemes
Are vain delusions, idle dreams;
Our purposes are frail and weak;
With earthly mind we seldom seek
What pleaseth God.

God is the holiest; and his ways
Are full of kindness, truth, and grace;
His blessing crowns our earnest prayer,
While worldlings scorn, and little care
What pleaseth God.

God's is the truest heart; his love
Nor time, nor life, nor death, can move;
To those his mercies daily flow,
Whose chief concern it is to know
What pleaseth God.

Omnipotent he reigns on high
And watcheth o'er thy destiny;
While sea, and earth, and air produce
For daily pleasure, daily use,
What pleaseth God.

He loves his sheep, and when they stray
He leads them back to wisdom's way;
Their faithless, wandering hearts to turn,
Gently chastising, till they learn
What pleaseth God.

He knows our every need, and grants
A rich supply to all our wants;
No good withholds from those whose mind
Is bent with earnest zeal to find
What pleaseth God.

Then let the world, with stubborn will,
Its earthborn pleasures follow still;
Be this, my soul, thy constant aim,
Thy riches, honor, glory, fame,
What pleaseth God.

Should care and grief thy portion be,
To thy strong refuge ever flee;
For all his creatures but perform,
In peace and tumult, calm and storm,
What pleaseth God.

Faith lays her hand on God's rich grace,
And hope gives patience for the race;
These virtues in thy heart enshrined,
Thy portion thou wilt surely find,
What pleaseth God.

In heaven thy glorious portion is;
There is thy throne, thy crown, thy bliss;
There shalt thou taste, and hear, and see,
There shalt thou ever do and be,
What pleaseth God.

--Paul Gerhardt.

"THE SPLENDOR OF GOD'S WILL"

O words of golden music
Caught from the harps on high,
Which find a glorious anthem
Where we have found a sigh,
And peal their grandest praises
Just where ours faint and die.

O words of holy radiance
Shining on every tear
Till it becomes a rainbow,
Reflecting, bright and clear,
Our Father's love and glory
So wonderful, so dear!

O words of sparkling power,
Of insight full and deep!
Shall they not enter other hearts
In a grand and gladsome sweep,
And lift the lives to songs of joy
That only droop and weep?

And O, it is a splendor,
A glow of majesty,
A mystery of beauty,
If we will only see;
A very cloud of glory
Enfolding you and me.

A splendor that is lighted
At one transcendent flame,
The wondrous love, the perfect love,
Our Father's sweetest name;
For his very name and essence
And his will are all the same.

--Frances Ridley Havergal.

NOT BY CHANCE

No chance has brought this ill to me;
'Tis God's sweet will, so let it be;
He seeth what I cannot see.

There is a need-be for each pain,
And he will make it one day plain
That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like as a piece of tapestry,
Viewed from the back, appears to be
Naught but threads tangled hopelessly,

But in the front a picture fair
Rewards the worker for his care,
Proving his skill and patience rare.

Thou art the workman, I the frame;
Lord, for the glory of thy name,
Perfect thine image on the same!

SUBMISSION TO GOD

Whate'er God wills let that be done;
His will is ever wisest;
His grace will all thy hope outrun
Who to that faith arisest.
The gracious Lord
Will help afford;
He chastens with forbearing;
Who God believes,
And to him cleaves,
Shall not be left despairing.

My God is my sure confidence,
My light, and my existence;
His counsel is beyond my sense,
But stirs no weak resistance;
His word declares
The very hairs
Upon my head are numbered;
His mercy large
Holds me in charge
With care that never slumbered.

There comes a day when at his will
The pulse of nature ceases.
I think upon it, and am still,
Let come whate'er he pleases.
To him I trust
My soul, my dust,
When flesh and spirit sever;
The Christ we sing
Has plucked the sting
Away from death forever.

--Albert of Brandenburg, 1586.

THY WILL BE DONE

We see not, know not; all our way
Is night; with thee alone is day.
From out the torrent's troubled drift,
Above the storm our prayers we lift:
Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint.
But who are we to make complaint
Or dare to plead, in times like these,
The weakness of our love of ease?
Thy will be done!

We take, with solemn thankfulness,
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for thee,
Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line,
We trace thy picture's wise design,
And thank thee that our age supplies
Its dark relief of sacrifice.
Thy will be done!

And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press;
If from thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,
Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,
And, blest by thee, our present pain
Be liberty's eternal gain,
Thy will be done.

Strike, thou the Master, we thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies!
The minor of thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,
Thy will be done!

--John Greenleaf Whittier.

There is no sense, as I can see,
In mortals such as you and me
A-faulting nature's wise intents
And locking horns with Providence.

It is no use to grumble and complain;
It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice;
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain--
Why, rain's my choice.

--James Whitcomb Riley.

THY WILL

Not in dumb resignation
We lift our hands on high;
Not like the nerveless fatalist,
Content to do and die.
Our faith springs like the eagle
Who soars to meet the sun,
And cries, exulting, unto thee,
"O Lord, thy will be done!"

Thy will! It bids the weak be strong;
It bids the strong be just;
No lip to fawn, no hand to beg,
No brow to seek the dust.
Wherever man oppresses man,
Beneath the liberal sun,
O Lord, be there! Thine arm make bare!
Thy righteous will be done!

--John Hay.

AS GOD WILL

All goeth but God's will!
The fairest garden flower
Fades after its brief hour
Of brightness. Still,
This is but God's good will.

All goeth but God's will!
The brightest, dearest day
Doth swiftly pass away,
And darkest night
Succeeds the vision bright.

But still strong-hearted be,
Yea, though the night be drear;
How sad and long soe'er
Its gloom may be,
This darkness, too, shall flee.

Weep not yon grave beside!
Dear friend, he is not gone;
God's angel soon this stone
Shall roll aside.
Yea, death shall not abide!

Earth's anguish, too, shall go,
O then be strong, my soul!
When sorrows o'er thee roll
Be still, and know
'Tis God's will worketh so.

Dear Lord and God, incline
Thine ear unto my call!
O grant me that in all,
This will of mine
May still be one with thine!

Teach me to answer still,
Whate'er my lot may be,
To all thou sendest me,
Of good or ill;
"All goeth as God will."

--Alice Williams.

THE SHADOW OF THE GREAT ROCK

Sweet is the solace of thy love,
My heavenly Friend, to me,
While through the hidden way of faith
I journey home with thee,
Learning by quiet thankfulness
As a dear child to be.

Though from the shadow of thy peace
My feet would often stray,
Thy mercy follows all my steps,
And will not turn away;
Yea, thou wilt comfort me at last
As none beneath thee may.

No other comforter I need
If thou, O Lord, be mine;
Thy rod will bring my spirit low,
Thy fire my heart refine,
And cause me pain that none may feel
By other love than thine.

Then in the secret of my soul,
Though hosts my peace invade,
Though through a waste and weary land
My lonely way be made,
Thou, even thou, wilt comfort me;
I need not be afraid.

O there is nothing in the world
To weigh against thy will;
Even the dark times I dread the most
Thy covenant fulfill;
And when the pleasant morning dawns
I find thee with me still.

Still in the solitary place
I would awhile abide.
Till with the solace of thy love
My soul is satisfied,
And all my hopes of happiness
Stay calmly at thy side.

On thy compassion I repose
In weakness and distress;
I will not ask for greater ease
Lest I should love thee less,
It is a blessed thing for me
To need thy tenderness.

--Anna Letitia Waring.

RABIA

There was of old a Moslem saint
Named Rabia. On her bed she lay
Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint.
"Send for the holy men to pray."
And two were sent. The first drew near:
"The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not bow beneath the rod,
And bear the chastening strokes of God."
Whereto the second, more severe:
"The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not in the rod rejoice
And make the strokes he bears his choice."
Then she, who felt that in such pain
The love of self did still remain,
Answered, "No prayers can be sincere
When they from whose wrung hearts they fall
Are not as I am, lying here,
Who long since have forgotten all.
Dear Lord of love! There is no pain."
So Rabia, and was well again.

--Edmund Clarence Stedman.

THREE STAGES OF PIETY

Rabia, sick upon her bed,
By two saints was visited:

Holy Malik, Hassan wise,
Men of mark in Moslem eyes.

Hassan said: "Whose prayer is pure
Will God's chastisement _endure_."

Malik, from a deeper sense,
Uttered his experience:

"He who loves his Master's choice
Will in chastisement _rejoice_."

Rabia saw some selfish will
In their maxims lingering still,

And replied: "O men of grace!
He who sees his Master's face

"Will not in his prayer recall
That he is chastised at all."

--Arabian, tr. by James Freeman Clarke, from the German of Tholuck.

(Rabia was a very holy Arabian woman who lived in the second century of the Hegira, or the eighth century of our era.)

PRAYER'S GRACE

Round holy Rabia's suffering bed
The wise men gathered, gazing gravely.
"Daughter of God!" the youngest said,
"Endure thy Father's chastening bravely;
They who have steeped their souls in prayer
Can any anguish calmly bear."

She answered not, and turned aside,
Though not reproachfully nor sadly.
"Daughter of God!" the eldest cried,
"Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly;
They who have learned to pray aright
From pain's dark well draw up delight."

Then spake she out: "Your words are fair;
But, oh, the truth lies deeper still.
I know not, when absorbed in prayer,
Pleasure or pain, or good or ill.
They who God's face can understand
Feel not the workings of his hand."

--Monckton Milnes.