O Lord, Thy fingers fashioned Calvary's hill;
Those skull-like stones were surely Thine intent.
Well did'st Thou know, Thy Body dead and still
Would crown its slopes and ev'ry rock be rent.
O Lord, 'twas in Thy mind, the tree was born,
With living strength to point men up to Thee.
Yet did'st Thou know, Thy members strained and torn
Would hang from lifeless wood, and lifeless be . . . .
O Lord, 'twas Thou, who molded common dust;
Breathed forth Thy life into this house of clay.
Yet did'st Thou know mankind, corrupted, must
Thine own pure vessel mar and cast away.
O Lord, my parts were written with Thy pen,
Ere I was formed within my mother's womb.
Lord of my life, 'twas I who slew Thee then,
My sin and curse inscribed, which sealed Thy tomb . . . .
Enough O Lord! Thy conquest is complete.
Thy love foreknew yet bore the shame for me.
Mine outpoured soul shall lave [wash] Thy pierced feet;
Thy great forgiveness bind my soul to Thee.
Geoffrey Bull, From the days of solitude in
Chungking, while confined there by the
Chinese Communist Army in spring 1951
Life, life of love poured out, fragrant and holy!
Life, 'mid rude thorns of earth, stainless and sweet!
Life, whence God's face of love, glorious but lowly,
Shines forth to bow us, Lord, low at Thy feet!
Grief, grief of love that drew hate's every arrow!
Grief that Thy suffering heart only could meet!
Grief, whence Thy face of love, shining in sorrow,
Draws us, adoring, Lord, low at Thy feet!
Death, death of stricken love, wrath's sea exploring! Death, Life's
mysterious death -- Deep meeting deep!
Death, whence Thy bursting heart fills ours outpouring
All, all in worship, Lord low at Thy feet!
By Samuel Webbe (1740-1816)
He has no enemies, you say? My friend,
your boast is poor:
He who fights valiantly in the fray of
duty, that the brave endure,
Must have made foes. If he has none,
small is the work that he has done.
He has opposed no traitor's stand;
Has rescued none from Satan's hand?
Has never turned the wrong to right?
He's been a coward in the fight!
By an unknown author
The Sacred Hour
O tell me not of worldly lore
And treasures of the earth!
To him who draws from Heaven’s store
They can be little worth.
I sail a sea of Love divine,
Unfathomed and unbound;
I search a deep and wealthy mine
Where gems of Heaven are found.
The Spirit’s breezes gently blow
That I may sail this sea;
His is the light to search and show
God’s deep, deep things to me.
O Book of wondrous depths and heights,
Of wisdom ever new,
Which in ten thousand various lights
Brings Jesus into view;
Whatever truths in thee I trace
New aspects meet mine eye,
And of His glory and His grace
Page unto page doth cry!
Of Science and Philosophy
I’ve heard the spreading fame;
They’re broad and deep, and urged, they say,
By many a pressing claim.
‘Tis said Philosophy hath charms
Which prove celestial birth;
That Science, with distended arms,
Grasps heaven in grasping earth.
I know not; neither have I tried
Their claims to disallow;
A trusting heart is satisfied
With neither why nor how.
They come from God if they be right,
If true they lead to Him;
But who would shun the noonday light
To grope in shadows dim?
And who would leave the Fountain Head
To drink the muddy stream,
Where men have mixed what God hath said
With every dreamer’s dream?
How dim is every earthly light
When suns celestial glow!
No earthly visions lure the sight
Where God His face doth show.
‘Tis sweet in prayer on God to call
While He my voice doth hear,
But sweeter when His sayings fall
Upon my opened ear!
For this I leave the paths of men
And shun my friends’ abode;
No earthly claims can stay me when
My spirit pants for God!
O not for wealth, nor fame, nor power,
Nor love, nor truest friend,
Would I forego the sacred hour
Which with God’s Word I spend!
I steal it from the hours of sleep
If leisure be not given,
For only this the soul can keep
In touch with God and Heav’n.
And thus to hearken unto Him
For one sweet, fleeting hour,
Is balm to wearied heart and limb—
Restoring grace and power.
Dear Book of treasures all divine,
My precious, priceless store!
How rich I am since thou art mine!
How poor I was before!
By William Blane
By Night When Others Soundly Slept
By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.
I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bowed his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.
My hungry Soul he filled with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washed in his blood,
And banished thence my Doubts and fears.
What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I’ll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Love him to Eternity.
Anne Bradstreet (née Dudley; March 8, 1612 – September 16, 1672, the first published writer in America and first female Puritan author. Both Anne's father and her husband were instrumental in the founding of Harvard University in 1636, which was founded to train ministers to serve churches “in the wilderness." The early motto of Harvard was Veritas Christo et Ecclesiae, meaning "Truth for Christ and the Church.")
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