Look on my sick, my dumb, my dying,
Touch Thou my blind that they may see;
This broken heart, in anguish sighing,

I bring them one and all to Thee.

My heart's best treasures, here I give them,
To be within Thy temple stored;
And as life's landmarks there I leave them,
"Because I asked them of the Lord."

When love would fail in fruitless yearning,
Thy golden censer wafts my prayers;
I see the perfumed incense burning:
All things are mine, all things are theirs.

I bring the care sharp and oppressing,
The way perplexed, the path untrod;
This feeble service for Thy blessing,

Oh, crown it "Given thee of God!"

I ask for patience, faith, and meekness,
And love divine that all endures:

Give me Thy strength to meet my weakness, Since Thou hast said, "All things are yours."

I bring the sin my soul distressing,

That Thou mayst cleanse me pure and white; The faint foreboding past expressing,

But clear before Thy searching sight.

Oh, let me feel Thee ever nigh me!
And seek Thy smile all gifts above;
No good thing will Thy grace deny me,
The object of Thy changeless love.

Thus shall I tread the rolling billow,

Looking to Him who hears it roar;
Thy hand my guide, Thy breast my pillow,
Lord, let me trust, and doubt no more!

Safe in the bark Thou bad'st me enter,
I'll triumph in Thy power divine;
And on Thy word my all I venture,

For Thou hast said, "All things are mine."

ANNA SHIPTON.

THE NIGHT SERVICE.

'Behold, bless ye the Lord, all ye servants of the Lord, which by night stand in the house of the Lord."

PSALM CXXXiv. 1.

FROM the awaking of the glorious sun

In the far chambers of the crystal east,
To where he goeth down in pomp and power
Beyond the western seas, the name of God
Is to be blessed and praised.

In morning hours,

When the sweet singing voice of birds is heard

On every side, when mighty forests wake

And stretch their hands to God, when through the earth

The breath of life is blowing, — then the Saints

Arise from sleep and sing.

And through the long bright day

There is no silence, for at every hour
Some soul is praising God.

But who shall praise God in the Night?

The Night, that lays her finger on the lips
Of men, and hushes them to something like
The calm of Death? Now sleeps the prisoner,
And the oppressor sleeps; the wicked cease
From troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Ah, who shall praise Him in the Night? the Night,
That stretcheth mournful wings from shore to shore,
Till silent lie the singers of the world

Beneath the shadow.

It is the Night:

And in the Temple of the Lord, not made
By mortal hands, the lights are burning low
Before the altar. Clouds of darkness fill
The vastness of the sacred aisles.

The dumb

And breathless Spirit of the Night is here
In all his power; no rushing mighty wind
Of organ-harmonies is sweeping down

The shadowy place. A few short hours ago,

And all the Temple-courts were thronged with those
Who worshipped and gave thanks, before they went
To take their rest. Then many voices joined

To sing the praise of God; but who shall bless
His name at midnight?

Lo! a band of pale
Yet joyful priests do minister around

The altar, where the lights are burning low,

In the breathless Night. Each grave brow wears the

crown

Of sorrow, and each heart is kept awake

By its own restless pain, for these are they
To whom the night-watch is appointed. See!
They lift their hands, and bless God in the Night!
Whilst we are sleeping, those to whom the King
Has measured out a cup of sorrow, sweet
With His dear love, yet very hard to drink,
Are waking in His Temple, and the eyes
That cannot sleep for sorrow or for pain
Are lifted up to heaven; and sweet low songs,
Broken by patient tears, arise to God.

Bless ye the Lord, ye servants of the Lord,
Which stand by Night within His Holy Place
To give Him worship! Ye are priests to Him,
And minister around the altar, pale

Yet joyful in the Night.

The priests must serve,
Each in his course, and we must stand in turn
Awake with sorrow, in the Temple dim,
To bless the Lord by Night. We will not fear
When we are called at midnight, by some stroke
Of sudden pain, to rise and minister

Before the Lord. We, too, will bless His name
In the solemn Night, and stretch our hands to Him.

B. M.

TRUST AND ADORATION.

WITHIN.

'ITHIN! within, O turn

WIT

Thy spirit's eyes, and learn

Thy wandering senses gently to control;

Thy dearest Friend dwells deep within thy soul,
And asks thyself of thee,

That heart, and mind, and sense, He may make whole
In perfect harmony.

Doth not thy inmost spirit yield

And sink where Love stands thus revealed?

Be still and veil thy face,

The Lord is here, this is His holy place!

Then back to earth, and 'mid its toil and throng One glance within will keep thee calm and strong; And when the toil is o'er, how sweet, O God, to flee Within, to Thee!

GERHARD TERSTEEGEN.