THE POWER OF PRAISE AND PRAYER Their backs were torn with cruel wounds, The prison chains were strong, Yet in that midnight hour of gloom They filled the place with song. Instead of sighing they rejoiced, They knew the Lord was there. And prison doors were opened wide By fervent praise and prayer. God shook the shackles from their hands: He set the prisoners free. He made them triumph over pain And deepest misery. If Paul and Silas had rebelled That night so long ago, The jailer would have never known The Christ who loved him so. Lord, we are weak. We need Thy help To keep faith clear and strong That in our midnight grief and pain We, too, may voice a song. Forbid that we should grieve Thee then What'ere the test may be. But by our heartfelt prayer and praise, Exalt and honor Thee. — Albert Simpson Reitz THE RECORD BOOK If all the things you ever said, Were written in a book: And all your thoughts were on dis play— So all could take a look: I guess there's not a living soul, Who wouldn't hang his head: And feel ashamed before the Lord, And wish that he were dead. There is a record book I'm told, With every deed and word: It even keeps the record of— Our thoughts that can't be heard: The good, the bad and every sin, For nothing has been missed: It really makes me feel ashamed, To think what's on my list.
And yet, the pages of my past, Shall never condemn me: For Jesus nailed them to His cross, One day at Calvary: And now I stand in Him complete, Redeemed from sin and strife: For with His blood He wrote my name, Down in the book of life. — Walt Huntley NOT GROWING OLD They say that I am growing old, I've heard them tell it times untold, In language plain and bold— But I'm not growing old. This frail old shell in which I dwell Is growing old, I know full well— But I am not the shell. What if my hair is turning gray? Gray hairs are honorable, they say. What if my eyesight's growing dim? I still can see to follow Him Who sacrificed His life for me Upon the cross of Calvary. What should I care if time's old plough Has left its furrow on my brow? Another house, not made with hand, Awaits me in the Glory land. What though I falter in my walk? What though my tongue refuse to talk? I still can tread the Narrow Way, I still can watch, and praise and pray. My hearing may not be as keen As in the past it may have been. Still, I can hear my Saviour say In whispers soft, "This is the way." The outward man, do what I can To lengthen out his life's short span, Shall perish, and return to dust, As everything in nature must. The inward man, the Scriptures say, Is growing stronger every day. Then how can I be growing old When safe within my Saviour's fold? Ere long my soul shall fly away, And leave this tenament of clay. This robe of flesh I'll drop and rise To seize the 'everlasting prize'— I'll meet you on the Streets of Gold, And prove that I'm not growing old."
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