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7 Still lift your standard high,

Still march in firm array,
As warriors through the darkness toil

Till dawns the golden day.

8 At last the march shall end,

The wearied ones shall rest,
The pilgrims find their Father's house,
Jerusalem the blest.

E. H. Plumptre.


7s. 61. JESUS, Master, whom I serve,

Though so feebly and so ill,
Strengthen hand and heart and nerve

All Thy bidding to fulfill ;
Open Thou mine eyes to see
All the work Thou hast for me.

2 Lord, Thou needest not, I know,

Service such as I can bring ;
Yet I long to prove and show

Full allegiance to my King.
Thou an honor art to me;
Let me be a praise to Thee.

3 Jesus, Master, wilt Thou use

One who owes Thee more than all ?
As Thou wilt! I would not choose ;

Only let me hear Thy call.
Jesus, let me always be,
In Thy service, glad and free.

F. R. Havergal. (This hymn is Part II of “Jesus, Master, whose I am," No. 276, and “Take my life and let be," No. 453.)


S. M.
O PRAISE our God to-day,

His constant mercy bless,
Whose love hath helped us on our way,

And granted us success.

2 His arm the strength imparts

Our daily toil to bear ;
His grace alone inspires our hearts,

Each other's load to share.

3 Oh, happiest work below,

Earnest of joy above,
To sweeten many a cup of woe,

By deeds of holy love !

4 Lord, may it be our choice,

This blessed rule to keep,
“Rejoice with them that do rejoice,
And weep with them that we

H. W. Baker.


S. M.
Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thy hand ;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed;

Broad-cast it o'er the land.

2 And duly shall appear

In verdure, beauty, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,

And the full corn at length.

3 Thou canst not toil in vain :

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain

For garners in the sky.

4 Thence, when the glorious end,

The day of God, is come,
The angel-reapers shall descend,
And Heaven cry, “Harvest Home.”

J. Montgomery.


C. M. Oh, still in accents sweet and strong

Sounds forth the ancient word,
“More reapers for white harvest fields,

More laborers for the Lord.”

2 We hear the call ; in dreams no more

In selfish ease we lie,
But, girded for our Father's work,

Go forth beneath His sky. 3 Where prophets' word, and martyrs' blood,

And prayers of saints were sown, We, to their labors entering in,

Would reap where they have strown. 4 O Thou whose call our hearts has stirred,

To do Thy will we come;
Thrust in our sickles at Thy word,
And bear our harvest home.

S. Longfellow. 565

L. M. O LOVE divine, that stoop'd to share

Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earth-born care,

We smile at pain while Thou art near. 2 Though long the weary way we tread,

And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread,

Our hearts still whispering, Thou art


3 When drooping pleasure turns to grief,

And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,

Shall softly tell us Thou art near. 4 On Thee we fling our burdening woe,

O Love divine, forever dear! Content to suffer, while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near.

0. W. Holmes.


6s. 81. Thy way, not mine, O Lord,

However dark it be !
Lead me by Thine own hand ;

Choose out the path for me.
I dare not choose my lot;

I would not, if I might;
Choose Thou for me, my God,

So shall I walk aright.
2 The kingdom that I seek

Is Thine, so let the way
That leads to it be Thine,

Else I must surely stray.
Take Thou my cup, and it

With joy or sorrow fill,
As best to Thee may seem ;

Choose Thou my good and ill.
3 Choose Thou for me my friends,

My sickness, or my health ;
Choose Thou my cares for me,

My poverty or wealth.
Not mine, not mine the choice,

In things or great, or small;
Be Thou my guide, my strength,

My wisdom, and my all.

H. Bonar.


C. M. Oh, help us, Lord; each hour of need

Thy heavenly succor give ; Help us in thought, and word, and deed,

Each hour on earth we live.

2 Oh, help us, through the prayer of faith

More firmly to believe ;
For still, the more the servant hath,

The more shall he receive.

3 If, strangers to Thy fold, we call,

Imploring at Thy feet
The crumbs that from Thy table fall,

'T is all we dare entreat.

4 But be it, Lord of mercy, all,

So Thou wilt grant but this :
The crumbs that from Thy table fall

Are light, and life, and bliss.

5 Oh, help us, Jesus, from on high ;

We know no help but Thee : Oh, help us so to live and die As Thine in heaven to be.

H. H. Milman.


11s, 10s COME, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish,

Come to the mercy-seat, fervently kneel ; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tel

your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

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