IN APPRECIATION by Rev. William Richards
THE GOSPEL ACCORD ING TO YOU Not "making a living," but making a life; What you are but not what you gain in the strife. Your life is a book, written red from your veins; What you are, and not what you say, remains. What life of our Christ are you writ ing, my friend? A Gospel to last till the centuries end? Your gospel of Christ is already begun, Then how shall the rest of the sweet story run? The saddest of all of His questions will be, "Does your life show the fact that you lived it for M e ?" MOTHER Over the forest and treeless plains And over the heights above, 'Tis ever the same, the heart of the home Is the throb of a mother's love. It kneels by the bed of the drowsy head, And whispers a lullaby That softly streams through the baby's dreams; "Fear not, for mother's night." It flows from her lips to her fingertips, Caressing the baby's curls; It shines in her eyes that sympathize With the tears of her little girls; The sorrows and joys of her little boys, It can only understand, And it hollows a touch we love so much— "Fear not, for mother's nigh." It mends the ball and the broken doll; It finds the missing knife, And all the day long it leaves a song 'Round the wearisome tasks of life. On every sea and on every land Beneath the sky's blue dome, The mother's love is the life and the light And the throbbing heart of the home.
From every clime and nation From every race and station They come to hear the Word To better know the Lord. They sit in class each day And hear the teacher say, ''God's only Son He gave And Jesus came to save Upon a Cross to die. And now He lives on high But soon' He'll come again To rule the sons of men." Then forth they go aflame To men in sin and shame, That they may hear the Word And come to know the Lord. For fifty years and seven This flame has burned toward heaven By sacrifice of all, By saints both great and small. From faithful widows' care, To penniless Christians' prayer; From many a frugal store To those who have much more. And when we get up there His glorious Home to share The Harvest of the Lord Will be our great reward. AFTER W INTER Before the blossoming of spring, With redbirds gaily caroling, Before the days of blue and gold, Lies Old Man Winter, bleak and cold. Beneath the pure white shroud, the earth Softly sleeps; on every hearth Bright fires warmly gleam and glow, And trees are pruned that fruit may grow. After the time of storm and rain, Through death comes life, through loss comes gain; Then with this truth let all hearts ring, In Christ is our Eternal Spring! — Christine White — Dedicated to all the faithful Biola donors
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