Waiting

Waiting
by John Burroughs

Serene, I fold my hand and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, nor sea;
I rave no more'gainst time or fate,
For lo! mine own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder
heights;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delights.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

The Splendor Of Heaven

THE SPLENDOR OF HEAVEN.
REV. F. W. FABER, P. P.
Ah, what is this splendor that beams on me now,
This beautiful sunrise that dawns on my soul, 

While faint and far oft" land and sea lie below,
And under my feet the huge golden clouds roll?

To what mighty king doth this city belong,
With its rich jeweled shrines, and its gardens of flowers,
With its breath of sweet incense, its measures of song.
And the light that is gilding its numberless towers?

See! forth from the gates, like a bridal array,
Come the princes of heaven, how bravely they shine!
'Tis to welcome the stranger, to show me the way,
And to tell me that all I see round me is mine.

There are millions of saints in their ranks and degree
And each with a beauty and crown of his own;
And there, far outnumbering the sands of the seas,
The nine rings of angels encircle the throne.

And oh, if the exiles of earth could but win
One sight of the beauty of Jesus above,
From that hour they -would cease to be able to sin,
And earth would be heaven; for heaven is love.

But words may not tell of the vision of peace,
With its worshipful seeming, its marvelous fires;
Where the soul is at large, where its sorrows all cease,
And the gift has outbidden its boldest desires.

No sickness is here, no bleak, bitter cold,
No hunger, debt, prison, or weariful toil;
No robbers to rifle our treasures of gold,
No rust to corrupt, and no canker to spoil.

My God! and it was but a short hour ago,
That I lay on a bed of unbearable pains;
All was cheerless around me, all weeping and woe;
Now the wailing is changed to angelical strains.

Because I served Thee, were life's pleasures all gone?
Was it gloom, pain, or blood, that won heaven for me?
Oh no! one enjoyment alone could life boast,
And that, dearest Lord ! was my service of Thee.

I had hardly to give; 'twas enough to receive,
Only not to impede the sweet grace from above;
And, this first hour in heaven, I can hardly believe
In so great a reward for so little a love.

God moves in a mysterious way...

God moves in a mysterious way...

by William Cowper

God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea

And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,

And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings o'er your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

Life's Journey With God

Jeanette McMillan writes in this poem of a life's journey with God:

My plans were made, I thought my path all

bright and clear,

My heart with songs o'erflowed, the world

seemed full of cheer.

My Lord I wished to serve, to take Him for

my Guide,

To keep so close that I could feel Him by my

side;

And so I traveled on.

But suddenly, in skies so clear and full of

light.

The clouds came thick and fast, the day

seemed changed to night.

Instead of paths so clear and full of things

so sweet,

Rough things, and thorns, and stones seemed

all about my feet,

I scarce could travel on,

I bowed my head and wondered why this

change should come.

And murmured, "Lord, is this because of

aught I've done?

Has not the past been full enough of pain

and care?

Why should my path again be changed to

dark from fair?"

But still I traveled on.

I listened - quiet and still, there came a voice:

"This path is mine, not thine; I made the

choice.

Dear child, this service will be best for thee

and me

If thou wilt simply trust and leave the end

with me."

And so we travel on. 

Night For Rest

Night For Rest

Between the days, the weary days,
He drops the darkness and the dew;
Over tired eyes his hands he lays.
And strength and hope and life renews.
Thank God for rest between the days! 

Else who could bear the battle stress,
Or who withstand the tempest's shocks,
Who tread the dreary wilderness
Among the pitfalls and the rocks;
Came not the night with folded flocks?

The white light scorches and the plain
Stretches before us, parched with the heat;
But, by and by, the fierce beams wane;
And lo! the nightfall, cool and sweet.
With dews to bathe our aching feet!

For he remembereth our frame!
Even for this I render praise.
O, tender Master, slow to blame
The falterer on life's stormy ways,
Abide with us - between the days!

Death Not To Be Feared

The following lines by Maltbie D. Babcock were read by him just before sailing abroad on the voyage from which he never returned:

Why be afraid of death as tho your life were

breath?

Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O,

glad surprise!

Why should you be forlorn? Death only

husks the corn.

Why should you fear to meet the Thresher

of the wheat?

Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping you

are dead

Till you awake and rise, here, or beyond

the skies.

Why should it be a wrench to leave your

wooden bench?

Why not with happy shout run home when

school is out?

The dear ones left behind--O foolish one 

and blind.

A day, and you will meet-- a night, and you

will greet.

This is the death of death, to breathe away

a breath

And know the end of strife, and taste the 

deathless life,

And joy without a fear, and smile without

a tear,

And work, nor care to rest, and find the last

the best.

Fernando Ortega sings "This is my father's world" by 
clergyman,  Maltbie D. Babcock

Steamship Arabic

Steamship Arabic

Welcome, old Arabic, again

The ties which still do bind thee here

Shall be, for many a coming year,

Thy truest, strongest anchor chain.

The flag thou bearest ne'er turns pale,

The crimson flag which rules the wave,

And God, who all that power gave,

Save thee from traitor, rock and gale.

I look with envy though and cry,

"Would that the county of my birth

Could claim a ship of equal worth,"

Proud then, by right, indeed were I.

And when I gaze at thy fair form,

I pray that in the nearing time,

Ships, fair as thee, in every clime

Beneath my flag shall brave the storm.

I pray some ship, as thee divine,

Beneath my Stars and Stripes may be

Thy sister queen, and every sea

Shall know but thy loved flag and mine.

Now welcome to my home again,

And to my arms and to my heart.

Then when thy duty bids depart,

May fortune at thy helm remain.

 

Charles A. Gunnison

A Ship in A Bottle

A Ship in A Bottle

In a sailormen's restaurant Rotherhithe way.

Where the din of the docksides is loud all the day.

And the breezes come bringing off basin and pond

And all the piled acres of lumber beyond,

From the Oregon ranges the tang of the pine

And the breath of the Baltic as bracing as wine. . . .

Among the stale odours of hot food and cold,

In a fly-spotted window I there did behold

A ship in a bottle some sailor had made.

In watches below, swinging South with the Trade,

When the fellows were patching old dungaree suits.

Or mending up oilskins and leaky sea-boots.

Or whittling a model, or painting a chest,

Or smoking and yarning and watching the rest.

In fancy I saw him -- all weathered and browned.

Deep crows'-feet and wrinkles his eyelids around;

A pipe in the teeth that seemed little the worse

For Liverpool pantiles and stringy salt horse. . . .

The hairy forearm with its gaudy tattoo

Of a bold-looking female in scarlet and blue. . . .

The fingers all roughened and toughened and

scarred.

With hauling and hoisting so calloused and hard.

So crooked and stiff you would wonder that still

They could handle with cunning and fashion with

skill

The tiny full-rigger predestined to ride

To its cable of thread on its green-painted tide

In its wine-bottle world while the old world went on,

And the sailor who made it was long ago gone.

And still as he worked at the toy on his knee.

He would spin his old yarns of the ships and the sea,

Thermopylae, Lightning, Lothair and Red Jacket,

And many another such famous old packet‚

And many a tough bucko and daredevil skipper

In Liverpool blood-boat and Colonies clipper‚

The sail that they carried aboard the Black Ball,

Their skysails and stunsails and ringtail and all.

And storms that they weathered, and races they

won,

And records they broke in the days that are done.

Or else he would sing you some droning old song,

Some old sailor's ditty both mournful and long.

With queer little curlycues, twiddles and quavers.

Of smugglers and privateers, pirates and slavers,

"The brave female smuggler," the "packet of fame

That sails from New York, an' the Dreadnought's her

name,"

And "all on the coast of the High Barbabee,"

And " the flash girls of London were the downfall

of he."

In fancy I listened-- in fancy could hear

The thrum of the shrouds and the creak of the

gear --

The patter of reef-points on tops'ls a-shiver---

The song of the jibs when they tauten and quiver--

The cry of the frigate-bird following after--

The bow-wave that broke with a gurgle like

laughter---

And I looked on my youth with its pleasure and pain

And the shipmate I loved was beside me again . . .

In a ship in a bottle a-sailing away

In the flying-fish weather through rainbows of spray,

Over oceans of wonder by headlands of gleam

To the harbours of youth on the wind of a dream !

By Cicely Fox Smith