I Psalm 30 PSALM 30 WILL extol thee, O Lord; for thou hast lifted me up, And hast not made my foes to rejoice over me. O Lord, my God, I cried unto thee, And thou hast healed me. O Lord, thou hast brought up my soul from the grave: Thou hast kept me alive, that I should not go down to the pit. Sing unto the Lord, O ye saints of his, And give thanks at the remembrance of his holi ness. For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favor is life: Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in in the morning. And in my prosperity I said, I shall never be moved. Lord, by thy favor thou hast made my mountain to stand strong. Thou didst hide thy face, and I was troubled. I cried to thee, O Lord; And unto the Lord I made supplication. What profit is there in my blood, when I go down to the pit? Shall the dust praise thee? Shall it declare thy truth? Hear, O Lord, and have mercy upon me: Lord, be thou my helper. Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing. Thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness; To the end that my glory may sing praise to thee, and not be silent. O Lord, my God, I will give thanks unto thee forever. “Where Lies the Land" "WHERE LIES THE LAND" Hall Caine HERE lies the land to which thy soul would go? Beyond the wearied wold, the songless dell, The purple grape and golden asphodel, Rest! rest! to thy hushed realm how one by one Ah, God, when death in seeming peace shall steep Life's loud turmoil and Time his race hath run Shall heart of man at length find rest and sleep? T PRAYER Hartley Coleridge HERE is an awful quiet in the air, And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye, Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky, Like Patience slow subsiding to Despair. But see, the blue smoke as a voiceless prayer, Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies And nought is seen beneath the pendent blue, So have I dreamed - oh, may the dream be true! That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to whom they pray. Not In Vain L NOT IN VAIN Hartley Coleridge ET me not deem that I was made in vain, Which Fate, in working its sublime intent, Each drop uncounted in a storm of rain |