Say once again Thy sweet “I will!… In answer to my prayers. “Lord, if Thou wilt!”— —“I will! Rise up above thy cares!”

Lord, when on my bed I lie, Sleepless, unto Thee I’ll cry; When my brain works overmuch, Stay the wheels with Thy soft tou… Just a quiet thought of Thee,

Winter hung about the ways, Very loth to go. Little Spring could not get past… Try she never so. This side,—that side, everywhere,

I faced a future all unknown, No opening could I see, I heard without the night wind moa… The ways were dark to me,— “I cannot face it all alone

Where are all the young men? There are only grey-heads here. What has become of the young men? centered* * * * * * * This is the young men’s year!

Watchman! What of the night? No light we see,— Our souls are bruised and sickened… Of this foul crime against humanit… The Ways are dark——

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

But once I pass this way, And then—no more. But once—and then, the Silent Doo… Swings on its hinges,— Opens... closes,—

Each man is Captain of his Soul, And each man his own Crew, But the Pilot knows the Unknown… And He will bring us through. We break new seas to-day,—

Out of all the reek and turmoil Of the dreadful battle-plain, Came a voice insistent, calling, Calling, calling, but in vain;— “Through Me only

Bond-slave to Christ, and in my b… Earmarked to Him I counted less t… His man henceforward, eager to be… That wondrous Love which Saul the… Sought him and found him, working…

I stood, unseen, within a sumptous… Where one clothed all in white sat… So sweet his presence that a pure… Rayed from him, and I saw—most wo… The Love of God shrined in the fl…

The wind blows shrill along the hi… —Black is the night and cold— The sky hangs low with its weight… And the drifts are deep on the wol… But what care I for wind or snow?

Through every minute of this day, Be with me, Lord! Through every day of all this week… Be with me, Lord! Through every week of all this yea…

Is there, in you or me, Seed of that poison-tree Which, in its bitter fruiting, bor… Such vintage sore Of red calamity—