How can the Lord Christ come again?

Nay,--will He come again?

Is He not surely fled For ever from a world where He Is still so buffeted?_"

But the day's glory all forbade Such depth of woe. Came to our aid The sun, the birds, the springing things, The winging things, the singing things; And taught us this,-- _After each Winter cometh Spring,-- G.o.d's hand is still in everything,-- His mighty purposes are sure,-- His endless love doth still endure, And will not cease, nor know remiss, Despite man's forfeiture_.

_The Lord is risen indeed!

In very truth and deed The Lord is risen, is risen, is risen; He will supply our need_.

So we took heart again, And built us refuges from pain Within His coverture,-- Strong towers of Love, and Hope, and Faith, That shall maintain Our souls' estate Too high and great For even Death to violate.

THE CHILD OF THE MAID

On Christmas Day The Child was born, On Christmas Day in the morning;-- _--To tread the long way, lone and lorn, --To wear the bitter crown of thorn, --To break the heart by man's sins torn, --To die at last the Death of Scorn_.

For this The Child of The Maid was born, On Christmas Day in the morning.

But that first day when He was born, Among the cattle and the corn, The sweet Maid-Mother wondering, And sweetly, deeply, pondering The words that in her heart did ring, Unto her new-born king did sing,--

"My baby, my baby, My own little son, Whence come you, Where go you, My own little one?

Whence come you?

Ah now, unto me all alone That wonder of wonders is properly known.

Where go you?

Ah, that now, 'tis only He knows, Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.

In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,-- Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!

I wonder ... I wonder ...

And--wish--it--were--done!

"O little, little feet, dears.

So curly, curly sweet!-- How will it be with you, dears, When all your work's complete?

O little, little hands, dears, That creep about my breast!-- What great things you will do, dears, Before you lie at rest!

O softest little head, dear, It shall have crown of gold, For it shall have great honour Before the world grows old!

O sweet, white, soft round body, It shall sit upon a throne!

My little one, my little one, Thou art the Highest's son!

All this the angel told me, And so I'm sure it's true, For he told me who was coming,-- And that sweet thing is _YOU_."

On Christmas Day The Child was born, On Christmas Day in the morning;-- _--He trod the long way, lone and lorn, --He wore the bitter crown of thorn, --His hands and feet and heart were torn, --He died at last the Death of Scorn_.

But through His coming Death was slain, That you and I might live again.

For this The Child of The Maid was born, On Christmas Day in the morning.

WASTED?

Think not of any one of them as wasted, Or to the void like broken tools outcasted,-- Unnoticed, unregretted, and unknown.

Not so is His care shown.

Know this!-- In G.o.d's economy there is no waste, As in His Work no slackening, no haste; But noiselessly, without a sign, The measure of His vast design Is all fulfilled, exact as He hath willed.

And His good instruments He tends with care, Lest aught their future usefulness impair,-- As Master-craftsman his choice tools doth tend, Respecting each one as a trusty friend, Cleans them, and polishes, and puts away, For his good usage at some future day;-- So He unto Himself has taken these, Not to their loss but to their vast increase.

To us,--the loss, the emptiness, the pain; But unto them--all high eternal gain.

SHORTENED LIVES

To us it seemed his life was too soon done, Ended, indeed, while scarcely yet begun; G.o.d, with His clearer vision, saw that he Was ready for a larger ministry.

Just so we thought of Him, whose life below Was so full-charged with bitterness and woe, Our clouded vision would have crowned Him King, He chose the lowly way of suffering.

Remember, too, how short His life on earth,-- But three-and-thirty years 'twixt death and birth.

And of those years but three whereof we know, Yet those three years immortal seed did sow.

It is not tale of years that tells the whole Of Man's success or failure, but the soul He brings to them, the songs he sings to them, The steadfast gaze he fixes on the goal.

LAGGARD SPRING

Winter hung about the ways, Very loth to go.

Little Spring could not get past him, Try she never so.

This side,--that side, everywhere, Winter held the track.

Little Spring sat down and whimpered, Winter humped his back.

Summer called her,--"Come, dear, come!

Why do you delay?"

"Come and help me, Sister Summer, Winter blocks my way."

Little Spring tried everything, Sighs and moans and tears, Winter howled with mocking laughter, Covered her with jeers.

Winter, rough old surly beggar, Practised every vice, Pelted her with hail and snow storms, Clogged her feet with ice.

But, by chance at last they caught him Unawares one day, Tied his hands and feet, and dancing, Sped upon their way.

LONELY BROTHER

Art thou lonely, O my brother?

Share thy little with another!

Stretch a hand to one unfriended, And thy loneliness is ended.