Lord, give me faith!—to live from… With tranquil heart to do my simpl… And, with my hand in Thine, just… Lord, give me faith!—to trust, if… With quiet mind in all things The…

O, Prince of Life, Thy Life hath… All life to sweeter, loftier grace… Life’s common rounds have wider bo… Since Thou hast trod life’s commo… O, Heart of Love! Thy Tenderness

To us it seemed his life was too s… Ended, indeed, while scarcely yet… God, with His clearer vision, saw… Was ready for a larger ministry. Just so we thought of Him, whose…

Each sin has its door of entrance. Keep—that—door—closed! Bolt it tight! Just outside, the wild beast crouc… In the night.

They died that we might live,— Hail!—And Farewell! —All honour give To those who, nobly striving, nobl… That we might live!

From deepest depth, O Lord, I cr… "My Love runs quick to your neces… I am bereft; my soul is sick with… "Dear one, I know. My heart br… What most I loved is gone. I w…

Time beats out all things with his… Things great, things small. With steady strokes that never fai… With slow, sure strokes of his iro… Time beats out all.

I know! I know!— The ceaseless ache, the emptiness,… The pang of loss,— The strength that sinks beneath so… “—Heedless and careless, still the…

Singing, she washed Her baby’s clothes, And, one by one, As they were done, She hung them in the sun to dry,

When, with bowed head, And silent-streaming tears, With mingled hopes and fears, To earth we yield our dead; The Saints, with clearer sight,

Flora, with wondrous feathers in h… Rain-soaked, and limp, and feeling… With flowers of sorts in her full… Back to the railings, there by Ch… And cursed the weather and a blank…

There is darkness still, gross dar… On this fair earth of Thine. There are prisoners still in the p… Where never a light doth shine. There are doors still bolted again…

I saw one hanging on a tree, And O his face was sad to see,— Misery, misery me! There were berries red upon his he… And in his hands, and on his feet,

Britain! Our Britain! uprisen in… Of your white wrath at treacheries… Roused from your sleep, become onc… Of those high things which make li… Now, God be thanked for even such…

The spikenard was not wasted;— All down the tale of years, The fragrance of that broken alaba… Still clings to Mary’s memory, As clung its perfume sweet unto he…