Questions & Answers
Don't just sit and pray For increase of your store, But work; who will help himself, Heaven helps more. The weeds while you're sleeping, Will come up and grow, But if you would have the Full ear, you must hoe! — Alice Carey.
My bark is wafted to the strand By breath divine,— And on the helm there rests a Hand Other than mine. One who has known in storms to sail I have on board; Above the raving of the gale I hear my Lord.
I used to walk in the valley, tho' sometimes raising my eyes To the light that glowed on the hill-top and hung in the azure skies. Now I live on the mountain; and, watching the shadows below, Reach downward to help the care-worn whose footsteps are weary and slow.
" Only a drop in the bucket, But every drop will tell; The bucket soon would be empty Without the drop in the well. Only a poor little penny; It was all I had to give; But as pennies make the dollars, It may help some cause to live.
I was wild with anxious sorrow, And knew not where to fly For help that must reach my darling Before the day went by. Must I "drink this cup?" I questioned Of Him "who knoweth all;" But an echo only answered My earnest, pleading call.
Therefore great heart, bear up! thou art but type Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through Love. Each has his lonely peak, and on each heart Envy or scorn or hatred tears lifelong, with vulture beak.
When the Daylight long expected Dawns upon the human view, Then will Life in all its splendor Be revealed to us anew. The great hereafter has no future, The past no memory house in store, The ever-present sense of goodness Fulfills the memory law of lore.
Robins in the tree-tops, Blossoms in the grass, Green things a-growing Every where you pass; Sudden little breezes Showers of silver dew Black bough and bent twig Budding out anew; Pine tree and willow-tree Fringed elm and larch, Don't you think that May time's Pleasanter than March? T. B.
Where hast been toiling all day, sweet-heart, That thy brow is burdened and sad? The Master's work may make weary feet, But it leaves the spirit glad. Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost, Or scorched with the mid-day glare? Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed, That thy face is so full of care? "No pleasant garden-toils were mine!— I have sat on the judgment-seat, Where the Master sits at eve and calls The children around His feet.
On the whitest plumes of the Mayflower-tree, The blackbird loves to sing, There he prunes his breast with his golden beak, And ruffles his glossy black wing. Or he creeps to the sweet tree's innermost heart, And jugs with his mellow pipe; He whistles and flutes to the apple-flowers; The cherry will soon be ripe.