O Source of Life, live, dwell, and move
In me, till all my life be love!

Send down Thy likeness from above,
And let this my adorning be:
Clothe me with wisdom, patience, love,
With lowliness and purity:

Than gold and pearls more precious far,
And brighter than the morning star.

Lord, arm me with Thy Spirit's might;
Since I am called by Thy great name,
In Thee let all my thoughts unite,

Of all my works be Thou the aim :
Thy love attend me all my days,
And my sole business be Thy praise.

JOACHIM LANGE. Tr. by John Wesley.

TAKE my life, and let it be

Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.

Take my moments and my days;
Let them flow in ceaseless praise.

Take my hands, and let them move
At the impulse of Thy love.

Take my feet, and let them be

Swift, and "beautiful" for Thee.

Take my voice, and let me sing
Always, only, for my King.

Take my lips, and let them be
Filled with messages from Thee.

Take my silver and my gold;
Not a mite would I withhold.

Take my intellect, and use
Every power as Thou shalt choose.

Take my will, and make it Thine;
It shall be no longer mine.

Take my heart; it is Thine own;
It shall be Thy royal throne.

Take my love; my Lord, I pour
At Thy feet its treasure-store.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heaven espy.

All may of Thee partake:

Nothing can be so mean,

Which with his tincture (for Thy sake)
Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause

Makes drudgery divine :

Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws,
Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold:

For that which God doth touch and own

Cannot for less be told.

GEORGE HERBERT.

SONNET.

METHOUGHT that in a solemn church I stood.

Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet,

Lay spread from door to door, from street to street.
Midway the form hung high upon the rood
Of Him who gave His life to be our good;
Beyond priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet
Among the candles shining still and sweet.

Men came and went, and worshipped as they could,

And still their dust a woman with her broom,
Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door.
Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom,
Across the church a silent figure come :

"Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!” It is the Lord, I cried, and saw no more.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

SENSITIVENESS.

TIM

IME was, I shrank from what was right,
From fear of what was wrong;

I would not brave the sacred fight,
Because the foe was strong.

But now I cast that finer sense
And sorer shame aside;
Such dread of sin was indolence,
Such aim at heaven was pride.

So when my Saviour calls, I rise,
And calmly do my best;
Leaving to Him, with silent eyes
Of hope and fear, the rest.

I step, I mount where He has led ;
Men count my haltings o'er ;

I know them; yet, though self I dread,
I love His precept more.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

"For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth

to himself."

E with good gifts that most is blest,

HE

Or stands for God above the rest,
Let him so think "To serve the dear,
The lowlier children I am here.

"It is the children's bread I break;
He trusts me with it for their sake;
(Hunger I must if none it shares)
It is but mine when it is theirs.

"That which I teach, it most is mine,
Dear child of God, to make it thine;
When thou hast learned it, I shall see
The perfect meaning first in thee.

"That song I made, it was not mine,
Nor fraught with incense for the shrine,
Till, when thou sang'st it sweetly through,
I with thy voice sang praises too.

"That which I am, it is not mine;
The earth unto the moon doth shine -
Not to herself, for oft her way
Seems but a dark and cloudy day.