Hopefully waiting, and other poems [by A.D. Fitz Randolph and others].


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Seite 176 - Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track ; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back ; — That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good ; — That death seems but a covered way Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight; — That care and trial seem at last.
Seite 162 - Count each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee ; do thou With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ; Then lay before him all thou hast ; allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness : Grief should be Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate ; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ;...
Seite 176 - And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west- winds play ; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.
Seite 194 - WHEN gathering clouds around I view, And days are dark and friends are few, On him I lean who not in vain Experienced every human pain ; He sees my wants, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears.
Seite 178 - Is thy burden hard and heavy? Do thy steps drag wearily? Help to bear thy brother's burden ; God will bear both it and thee.
Seite 86 - How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither, sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread?
Seite 63 - To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes: No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again; And yet in tenderest love our dear And heavenly Father sends him here. There's quiet in that Angel's glance, There's rest in his still countenance! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure.
Seite 87 - For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain, If there I meet thy gentle presence not, Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given ? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven?
Seite 88 - For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll ; And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
Seite 194 - Which covers all that was a friend, And from his voice, his hand, his smile, Divides me for a little while ; Thou Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed, For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.

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