[065]

Sunday.

The Consecrated Life.

How is it that ye sought me?  Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?--Gospel for the Day.

Thy life is God's, thy time to come is gone,
          And is His right.
Herbert.

Thou that in life's crowded city art arrived, thou know'st not how
By what path or on what errand--list and learn thine errand now!
From the palace to the city on the businessof thy King
Thou wert sent at early morning to return at evening.
Dreamer, waken!--loiterer, hasten!--what thy task is, understand!
Thou art here to purchase substance, and the price is in thy hand.
Has the tumult of the market all thy sense and reason drowned?
Do its glistening wares attract thee? or its shouts and cries confound?
Oh! beware lest thy Lord's business be neglected while thy gaze
Is on every show and pageant which the giddy square displays!
Ruckert.

Oh let our adoration for all that He hath done
Peal out beyond the stars of God, while voice and life are one!
And let our consecration be real, and deep, and true,
Oh, even now our hearts shall bow, and joyful vows renew!

"In full and glad surrender we give ourselves to Thee,
Thine utterly, and only, and evermore to be!
O Son of God, Who Iovest us, we will be Thine alone,
And all we are, and all we have, shall henceforth be Thine own!"
F. R. Havergal.

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[066]

Monday. 1st after Epiphany.

The Consecrated Life.

If ye offer the lame and sick is it not evil?--Mal. i. 8.

I was not good enough for man
And so was given to God!
C. Kingsley.

My God must have my best, e'en all I had.
Herbert.

All we have we affer,
     All we hope to be:
Body, soul, and spirit,
     All we yield to Thee.
Thring.

While life is good to give, I give.
E. Arnold.

Deep in the warm vale the village is sleeping,
     Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above;
Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently creeping,
     Up to the Lord in the might of their love,
What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring Thee,
     Odour and light, and the magic of gold;
Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must sing Thee.
     Limbs which must ache for Thee ere they grow old.
What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I tender,
     Life of mine own life, the fruit of my love;
Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render
     Count of the precious charge, kneeling above!
C. Kinglsey.

They give their best--O tenfold shame
   On us their fallen progeny,
Who sacrifice the blind and lame,
   Who will not wake or fast with Thee!
Keble.

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