How loyal we should be! It were not hard, we think, to serve Him If we could only see! It were not hard, He says, to see Him, If we would only serve; "He that doeth the will of heaven, To him shall knowledge and sight be given." While for His presence we sit repin- ing, Never we see His countenance shin ing; They who toil where His reapers be The glow of His smile may always see, And their faith can never swerve. It were not hard. He says, to see Him, If we would only serve. LO! HE COMETH! Not as once He came to earth— Poor and humble, meek and lowly. Through the gate of human birth. Not to walk with feet awearied Through a world of sin and pain. By His own despised, rejected. Lamb of God for sinners slain. Now in majesty He cometh, Cloudy splendors wrap Him round. Wake, ye dead; and list, ye living— Hark, the trumpet's awful sound. Now His face is like the lightning. Now His eyes are like the flame; Lion of the tribe of Judah Heaven and earth adore His name. Lo, He cometh! Lo, He cometh! Bride and Spirit echo, "Come!" Come to heal Thy hurt creation, Come to take Thy people home. Mount the throne, O Son of David; Take the scepter, Prince of peace; Come, and hush the drums, loud beat ing/' Come, and bid all conflict cease. Come, and furl the flags of warfare! Come, and sheathe the nation's swords! Come, and reign in truth and justice— King of kings and Lord of lords. Come in power, come in glory, Come to take Thy Kingdom, Come. Even so, O King and Bridegroom— "Even so, Lord Jesus, come." — Annie Johnson Flint
ALL ON ACCOUN T OF THE BABY An ache in the back and an ache in the arms All on account of the baby. A fear and a fright and a thousand alarms, All on account of the baby. The bottles and rattles and whistles and rings. From cellar to attic a clutter of things, From morning to night and to morning again More fuss and more fume than an army of men, And a head that is stupid for lack of its sleep, And a heart where a flood of anxie ties leap— All on account of the baby. A joy in the heart and a light in the eyes, All on account of the baby. A growing content and a growing sur prise, All on account of the baby. And patience that conquers a myriad frets. And a sunshiny song that another begets, And pureness of soul as a baby is pure, And sureness of faith as the chil dren are sure, And a glory of love between husband and wife, And a saner and happier outlook on life. All on account of the baby. — Amos R. Wells IF W E COULD ON LY SEE! It were not hard, we think, to serve Him, If we could only see! If He would stand with that gaze in tense, Burning into our bodily sense, If we might look on that face most tender, The brows where the scars are turned to splendor, M ight catch the light of His smile so sweet, And view the marks on His hands and feet,
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