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7 Still lift your standard high,

Still march in firm array,
As warriors through the darkness toil

Till dawns the golden day.

8 At last the march shall end,

The wearied ones shall rest,
The pilgrims find their Father's house,
Jerusalem the blest.

E. H. Plumptre.


78. 61. JESUS, Master, whom I serve,

Though so feebly and so ill,
Strengthen hand and heart and nerve

All Thy bidding to fulfill ;
Open Thou mine eyes to see
All the work Thou hast for me.

2 Lord, Thou needest not, I know,

Service such as I can bring ;
Yet I long to prove and show

Full allegiance to my King.
Thou an honor art to me;
Let me be a praise to Thee.

3 Jesus, Master, wilt Thou use

One who owes Thee more than all ?
As Thou wilt! I would not choose ;

Only let me hear Thy call.
Jesus, let me always be,
In Thy service, glad and free.

F. R. Havergal. (This hymn is Part II of "Jesus, Master, whose I am," No. 276, and “Take my life and let be," No. 453.)


S. M.
O PRAISE our God to-day,

His constant mercy bless,
Whose love hath helped us on our way,

And granted us success.

2 His arm the strength imparts

Our daily toil to bear ;
His grace alone inspires our hearts,

Each other's load to share.

3 Oh, happiest work below,

Earnest of joy above,
To sweeten many a cup of woe,

By deeds of holy love !

4 Lord, may it be our choice,

This blessed rule to keep,
“Rejoice with them that do rejoice,
And weep with them that weep.

H. W. Baker.

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S. M.
Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thy hand ;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed;

Broad-cast it o'er the land.

2 And duly shall appear

In verdure, beauty, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,

And the full corn at length.

3 Thou canst not toil in vain :

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain

For garners in the sky.

4 Thence, when the glorious end,

The day of God, is come,
The angel-reapers shall descend,
And Heaven cry,

" Harvest Home.”

J. Montgomery.


C. M. Oh, still in accents sweet and strong

Sounds forth the ancient word,
“More reapers for white harvest fields,

More laborers for the Lord.”

2 We hear the call ; in dreams no more

In selfish ease we lie,
But, girded for our Father's work,

Go forth beneath His sky. 3 Where prophets' word, and martyrs' blood,

And prayers of saints were sown, We, to their labors entering in,

Would reap where they have strown. 4 0 Thou whose call our hearts has stirred,

To do Thy will we come ;
Thrust in our sickles at Thy word,
And bear our harvest home.

S. Longfellow. 565

L. M. O LOVE divine, that stoop'd to share

Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
On Thee we cast each earth-born care,

We smile at pain while Thou art near. 2 Though long the weary way we tread,

And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread,

Our hearts still whispering, Thou art


3 When drooping pleasure turns to grief,

And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,

Shall softly tell us Thou art near. 4 On Thee we fling our burdening woe,

O Love divine, forever dear ! Content to suffer, while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near.

0. W. Holmes.


6s. 81. Thy way, not mine, O Lord,

However dark it be !
Lead me by Thine own hand ;

Choose out the path for me.
I dare not choose my lot ;

I would not, if I might ;
Choose Thou for me, my God,

So shall I walk aright.
2 The kingdom that I seek

Is Thine, so let the way
That leads to it be Thine,

Else I must surely stray.
Take Thou my cup, and it

With joy or sorrow fill,
As best to Thee may seem ;

Choose Thou my good and ill.
3 Choose Thou for me my friends,

My sickness, or my health ;
Choose Thou my cares for me,

My poverty or wealth.
Not mine, not mine the choice,

In things or great, or small ;
Be Thou my guide, my strength,
My wisdom, and my all.

H. Bonar.


C. M. Oh, help us, Lord ; each hour of need

Thy heavenly succor give; Help us in thought, and word, and deed,

Each hour on earth we live.

2 Oh, help us, through the prayer of faith

More firmly to believe ;
For still, the more the servant hath,

The more shall he receive.

3 If, strangers to Thy fold, we call,

Imploring at Thy feet
The crumbs that from Thy table fall,

'T is all we dare entreat.

4 But be it, Lord of mercy, all,

So Thou wilt grant but this :
The crumbs that from Thy table fall

Are light, and life, and bliss.

5 Oh, help us, Jesus, from on high ;

We know no help but Thee : Oh, help us so to live and die As Thine in heaven to be.

H. H. Milman.


11s, 10s COME, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish,

Come to the mercy-seat, fervently kneel ; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tel

your anguish ; Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

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