TH IS I KNOW I know not where tomorrow's road May point my pilgrim way; I may not taste its joy or care. Nor see beyond today; But this I know— my Father plans The path I cannot see; He knows each turn, each hill and dale, And He will walk with me. I know not if my way be bright Or dark with storm and rain, I know not what it holds for me Of pleasure or of pain; But this I know— my Saviour's love Prepares my path each day, And held within His mighty hand I need not fear the way. I know not what the future holds, Nor what life's evening brings, But with the glad salute of faith I hail its opening wings; For this I know— in God the Lord Shall all my needs be met; I'll trust tomorrow to His love Who has not failed me yet. CAST ING ALL YOUR CARE ON H IM Why worry? Are tomorrow's skies more blue If on our beds we restless roll and toss With burning sleepless eyes until the morn, Building bridges that we may never cross? Does not the One who numbered every hair And marks the little sparrow when it falls, Give ear to us in His own image made, A s well as to the raven when it calls? And does He love the lilies of the field That do not toil and neither do they spin, More dearly than His helpless, storm- tossed child For whom He gave His life to save from sin? — E. Margaret Clarkson
Is He who weighs the mountains with His scales And measures in His hand the mighty deep, Who meted out the heavens with a span, Not able every trusting soul to keep? Then why these weary hours of name less dread That bring on shattered nerves and whitened hair. When He who rules the earth and restless seas, Bids us to cast on Him our ev'ry care? NOT ME! When a preacher in a sermon Speaks about the world of sin As he tries hard to arouse us From the lethargy we're in, We think "Oh, I knew they'd get it, They deserve it, glory be! He must mean the other fellow. He can't possibly mean me!" When he speaks about our failings And the things we ought to do, We gaze at another person With a look that says, "It 's you!" If we want to be more Christian It behooves us, it would seem, To think more about Christ's story Of the eye, the mote, the beam. — Ray I. Hoffman H IS W ILL— M Y W ILL I want my heart so cleaned of self. That my dear Lord can come And set up His own furnishings, And make my heart His home. And since I know what this requires, Each morning while it's still, I slip into that secret room, And leave with Him— my will. And this is how my Lord controls M y interest and my ills. Because we meet at break of day, For an exchange of wills.
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