INWARD STRIFE.

IN THE FIELD.

IGHTING the battle of life!

FIGHT

With a weary heart and head;

For in the midst of the strife

The banners of joy are fled.

Fled, and gone out of sight,

When I thought they were so near;
And the music of hope, this night,
Is dying away on my ear.

Fighting the whole day long,
With a very tired hand, –
With only my armour strong
The shelter in which I stand.

Fighting alone to-night, —

With not even a stander-by
To cheer me on in the fight,
Or to hear me when I cry.

Only the Lord can hear-
Only the Lord can see,

The struggle within, how dark and drear,
Though quiet the outside be.

Lord, I would fain be still

And quiet, behind my shield ;
But make me to love thy will,
For fear I should ever yield.
Nothing but perfect trust,

And love of thy perfect will,
Can raise me out of the dust,
And bid my fears be still.

Even as now my hands-
So doth my folded will
Lie waiting thy commands,
Without one anxious thrill.

But as with sudden pain

My hands unfold, and clasp, —
So doth my will start up again,
And taketh its old firm grasp.

Lord, fix my eyes upon thee,

And fill my heart with thy love;
And keep my soul till the shadows flee,
And the light breaks forth above.

HYMNS OF THE CHURCH MILITANT.

ONLY ONE STEP.

AINLY I strive through the darkness to see

VAINL

The path I must travel, 'tis hidden from me;

Halting, despairingly, kneeling, I say,

“Father, I cannot go; there is no way.”

Lo! as I kneel, at His feet humbly bowed,

My pathway is shown through a break in the cloud, — No road stretching far, the horizon to meet,

Only one step, lying close at my feet.

"Place my
feet in it, O Father above!
Teach me to trust in Thy infinite love!

The way that is hidden from me still Thou knowest;
Make me content with the step that Thou showest!"

UNDER THE

CROSS.

THE OLIVE Leaf.

I CANNOT, cannot say

Out of my bruised and breaking heart -
Storm-driven along a thorn-set way,

While blood-drops start

From every pore, as I drag on

"Thy will, O God, be done."

I cannot, in the wave

Of my strange sorrow's fierce baptism,
Look up to heaven, with spirit brave
With holy chrism;

And while the whelming rite goes on,

Murmur, "God's will be done."

JAN 1, 1862.

I thought, but yesterday,

My will was one with God's dear will;
And that it would be sweet to say-

Whatever ill

-

My happy state should smite upon,
“Thy will, my God, be done.”

Now, faint and sore afraid,
Under my cross — heavy and rude ·
My idols in the ashes laid,

Like ashes strewed;

The holy words my pale lips shun –
"O God, thy will be done."

Pity my woes, O God!

And touch my will with thy warm breath;
Put in my trembling hand thy rod,

That quickens death;

That my dead faith may feel thy sun,
And say, "Thy will be done!"

W. C. R.

UNDER THE CLOUD.

BEAUTEOUS things of earth!
I cannot feel your worth
To-day.

O kind and constant friend!

Our spirits cannot blend

To-day.

L

NO MORE SEA.

IFE of our life, and Light of all our seeing,

How shall we rest on any hope but Thee? What time our souls, to Thee for refuge fleeing, Long for the home where there is no more sea?