Verses and Rhymes by the way | Page 9

go, that we be fed; And there, as beggars begging for assistance, Say "Give us, Lord, this day our daily bread."
Without a price, the priceless blessings buying Which are laid up for us, with Christ in God; To Him we come as little children crying, That He may guide us by His staff and rod,
We leave His presence on the Sabbath morning, Feeling forgiven, feeling satisfied; Then pass our lowlier sisters full of scorning Ruffling ourselves as those that dwell in pride.
Yet He to whom we come with wishes fervent, When He came down as bearing our relief, It was His will to come in form a servant, Being despised, being acquaint with grief
Earth's mighty conquerors, it is said, have founded Orders of merit, after fields were won. And victors' brows the laurel wreath surrounded, To tell of daring deeds most bravely done.
Trifles as fading as the classic laurel, Became the guerdon of each mighty deed, Titles and stars rewarded mortal peril, And men for such as these would gladly bleed
But He, our holy, sinless, suffering Saviour, When He sat down upon a conqueror's throne, Ordained the soldiers of the cross that ever They wear the name in which He victory won
Servants to do all things He hath commanded, To bear the service which our Lord has borne, To suffer for His name, with false words branded, To pay with loving service bitter scorn
What was beforetime low, is now the highest, And that is glory that the world calls shame, Those who can say "I serve" to Him are nighest Because the Son hath worn a servant's name
Lift up your heads heed not the words of scorning, From those whose earnest life is not begun, Blessed are they who on the judgment morning Hear from the Master, "Servant, 'tis well done"

ALAS, MY BROTHER!
(P McD)
We waited for him, and the anxious days Melted to years and floated slowly by We spoke of him kind words of lofty praise, Of yearning love and tender sympathy.
We laid by what was his with reverent care-- Started in dreams to greet him coming home-- But hope deferred left no relief but prayer, And heart-sore longings breathed in one word--Come.
We never dreamed of murderous ambush laid By savage redskins greedy for the prey-- Of him, our darling, in the forest laid Alone, alone, ebbing his life away.
He who would not have harmed the meanest thing, Who carried gentleness to such excess That, to the stranger and the suffering, His purse meant help, his touch was a caress.
Ah me! that cruel far off land of gold, That lured him off beyond the ocean foam, To roam a stranger among strangers cold-- His blank life only cheered by news from home.
The home that he was never more to see, While yet his heart was planning his return, Short, sharp and swift the message came, and he Passed to his long home o'er the mystic bourne.
And while we watched for him the grass was green Upon his grave, swept by the summer air; There grow strange flowers--passes the hunter keen, The stately caribou and grizly bear.
But never more his mother's eyes he'll bless, Or with a fond embrace his sisters meet; No brother's hand will he in welcome press, Nor his hound's bay tell of his coming feet.
To us remains the mourner's _never more_, And aching hearts and eyes with sorrow dim; Thou who at Bethany their sorrow bore, Draw nigh us also while we weep for him.

I WILL NOT BE COMFORTED BECAUSE ONE IS NOT
There is a gladness over all the earth, For summer is abroad in breezy mirth, Nature rejoices and the heavens are glad, And I alone am desolate and sad, For I sit mourning by an empty cot, Refusing comfort because one is not.
And I will mourn because I am bereaved, Others have suffered others too have grieved Over hopes broken even as mine are broke, By a swift unexpected bitter stroke, And I must weep as weeping Jacob prest, To grieving lips his last ones princely vest
You tell me cease weeping, to resign Unto the Father's a will this will of mine, You say my lamb is on the Shepherd s breast, My flower blooms in gardens of the blest, I know it all I say, Thy will be done Yet I must mourn for him--my son! my son!

TO A FATHERS MEMORY
(J. M. D.)
I thank Thee Father that I feel Thee near, That it is hand of Thine that s raised to smite, Oh, make Thy loving kindness to appear, Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right!
Poor woe-worn watchers! he is going home; No skill can save him, and no love can keep; He served his generation--he is gone, And gathered to his fathers, falls asleep.
We've bitter cups to drain--but his