FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

HEN sorrow all our heart would ask,

WHEN

We need not shun our daily task,

And hide ourselves for calm;

The herbs we seek to heal our woe

Familiar by our pathway grow,

Our common air is balm.

I

REST.

LAY me down to sleep,

With little thought or care

Whether my waking find
Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong - all that is past;

I am ready not to do

At last, at last.

JOHN KEBLE.

My half day's work is done,
And this is all my part;
I give a patient God

My patient heart,

And grasp His banner still,
Though all its blue be dim;

These stripes, no less than stars,

SINCE

INCE in a land not barren still,
Because thou dost thy grace distill,

My lot is fallen, blest be thy will!

And since these biting frosts but kill
Some tares in me which choke or spill
That seed thou sow'st, blest be thy skill!

Blest be thy dew, and blest thy frost,
And happy I to be so crost,

And cured by crosses at thy cost.

The dew doth cheer what is distrest,
The frosts ill weeds nip and molest,
In both thou work'st unto the best.

Thus, while thy several mercies plot,
And work on me now cold, now hot,
The work goes on, and slacketh not:

For as thy hand the weather steers,
So thrive I best 'twixt joyes and tears,
And all the year have some green ears.

HENRY VAUGHAN, 1621-1695.

PEACE IN TROUBLE.

WHAT within me and without,

Hourly on my spirit weighs,

Burdening heart and soul with doubt,
Darkening all my weary days:
In it I behold Thy will,

God, who givest rest and peace,
And my heart is calm and still,
Waiting till Thou send release.

When my trials tarry long,

Unto Thee I look and wait,
Knowing none, though keen and strong,
Can my faith in Thee abate.
O my soul, why art thou vexed?

Let things go e'en as they will;
Though to thee they seem perplexed,
Yet His order they fulfil.

Yea, on Thee, my God, I rest,
Letting life float calmly on,

For I know the last is best,

When the crown of joy is won.

In Thy might all things I bear,
In Thy love find bitter sweet,
And, with all my grief and care,
Sit in patience at Thy feet.

Let Thy mercy's wings be spread
O'er me, keep me close to Thee;
In the peace Thy love doth shed,
Let me dwell eternally.

Be my All; in all I do

Let me only seek Thy will; Where the heart to Thee is true, All is peaceful, calm, and still.

A. H. FRANCKE, 1663-1727.

IT

REST.

T was Thy will, my Father,
That laid Thy servant low;
It was Thy hand, my Father,
That dealt the chastening blow;
It was Thy mercy bid me rest
My weary soul awhile,
And every blessing I receive
Reflects Thy gracious smile.

It is Thy care, my Father,
That cherishes me now;
It is Thy peace, my Father,
That rests upon my brow;

It is Thy truth, Thy truth alone,
That gives my spirit rest,

And soothes me like a happy child
Upon its mother's breast.

I have known youth, my Father,
Bright as a summer's day,
And earthly love, my Father,
But that too passed away;

Now life's small taper faintly burns,
A little flickering flame,

But Thine eternal love remains

Unchangeably the same.

EUPHEMIA SAXBY.

HYMN FOR SICKNESS.

GOD

OD! whom I as love have known,
Thou hast sickness laid on me,

And these pains are sent of Thee,
Under which I burn and moan;
All that plagues my body now,
All that wasteth me away,
Pressing on me night and day,
Love ordains, for Love art Thou!

Suffering is the work now sent;
Nothing can I do but lie

Suffering as the hours go by;
All my powers to this are bent.