"Father, Glorify Thy Name!"

"Father, glorify Thy name!" is my humble prayer,
Not because in all Thy joys I may have a share;
But because my love for Thee has grown deeper, Lord,
I would have Thy blessed name by all hearts adored.

"Father, glorify Thy name!" is my earnest prayer.
It may cost me keenest pain—yet, O Lord, I dare
To uplift this fervent plea, and the answer claim:
Though it mean the cross for me, Glorify Thy name!

"Father, glorify Thy name!" is my daily prayer.
All the loss my life may know Thou wilt help me bear;
To Thy will I say, Amen! In Thy love I trust: Father, glorify
Thy name through unworthy dust!

"Father, glorify Thy name!" is my constant prayer;
I have nought to dread or fear—Thou hast all my care.
Death can be but gain to me, e’en a death of shame:
Father, grant my humble prayer, Glorify Thy name!

—F. G. Burroughs

Is It I?

What deep emotions in their hearts did beat
As that small group who lay at Jesus’ feet
Did hear him say that one would go astray
And traitorously their loving Lord betray.

In unison their anguished cry arose
That none of them would sell him to their foes;
In heart-felt fear they asked, "Lord, is it I?"
For each one loved him dear; they’d ne’er deny.

Not loving John, who lay on Jesus’ breast,
Nor Peter bold, who towered o’er the rest,
Nor Mathew, Andrew, James—they all were sure
They’d stand the test with fervent love and pure.

But Jesus gave the fateful sop to one,
Who quickly did his wicked errand run,
Though he did join their ardent protest strong,
He set about to do his Master wrong.

And now we too, with deep concern, exclaim,
"Lord is it I? Will e’er I harm thy name?"
We each must search our inmost heart and thought
,"Will I betray or serve him as I ought."

Our Father’s Care

Our heavenly Father, as Thy saints press on,
Toward their eternal Home beyond the skies,
Pilgrims and strangers in a hostile land,
Thy loving hand their every need supplies;
Food, raiment, shelter, promised for each day,
And angels, hosts to guard them on their way.

Within Thy Holy Place they dwell secure;
No evil can come nigh, no foes invade;
The shining walls protect on every side,
No pestilence, no plague can make afraid.
While all around the stormy winds increase
Jehovah keeps His own in perfect peace.

With linen garments Thou hast covered them
Which garments cost the life of Thy dear Son.
In these white robes they work embroid’ry fine
With patient careful stitches one by one,
Till all complete in golden glory shown
The borrowed robe is now their very own.

Here in the harvest time Thou hast prepared
Thy table full of food, both rare and sweet,
The richest milk for all Thy tender babes,
And for the stalwart man the strongest meat.
With bread of life Thy table dost abound
And here the living waters may be found.

Of bitter herbs and honey, there is spread
A full supply that they may stronger grow:
With wine to strengthen them for days to come,
And oil to cause their cup to overflow.
Oh who could lack with such a rich supply,
Our Father, here we’ll feast until we die.

If we should wander Lord, from that abode,
If we should soil our robe, or wrinkle it,
Oh let us hear, and heed Thy warning voice
"Ye cannot come within till ye are fit."
Help us to cleanse our robes, our steps retrace,
That we may dwell within Thy Secret Place.

—Rebecca Fair Doney, Poems of the Way, p. 131.

Prodigal, Return!

"Return, return!" thy Father’s voice is pleading,
"Tho’ far astray, I bid thee turn again!
Thy robe is rent, thy tender feet are bleeding,
Thy heart is faint and sick with famine pain:
Return, my child: a welcome here awaits thee;
No longer in the distant country rove;
Resist the cruel tempter that berates thee,
And keeps thee from my dwelling and my love."

Return, return! Thy Father’s loving-kindness
Thou long hast scorned, and done his grace despite;
Yet in his touch is healing for thy blindness,
And he can turn thy darkness into light.
Return in all thy rags of sin’s defilement;
Return with all thy want and sore distress;
Thy Father’s voice bespeaks his reconcilement
:Flee to his breast, and there thy guilt confess.

Return, return! Thy substance hath been wasted—
Thou hast not aught to bring but thy poor heart;
Yet art thou longing for the bread once tasted,
And for his paths of peace, and faith’s good part?
Return, for why shouldst thou delay the pardon
Thy Father’s great compassion waits to grant?
Arise and go, before thy doubts shall harden
The homesick yearnings of the penitent.

Return, return! Leave thou the swine and famine
And seek again the plenty of thy home!
Why dost thou toil among the husks of mammon,
When to his rest the Father bids thee come?
Return thou to his arms, his kiss, his blessing;
Accept the robe, the sandals, and the ring;
And there, thy sinfulness and guilt confessing,
Thou shalt be found, lost treasure of the King!

Return, return! The angel-hosts bend o’er thee—
They wait to bear the tidings’ joyful sound.
They have beheld the Saviour dying,
And will rejoice to sing, The lost is found!
Return, for he will heal all thy backsliding—
Will love thee freely, and will thus forgive;
Come, weary soul, rest in his love abiding.
Thou hast been dead—arise today and live!

—Reprints, p. 1460

Tell Me About the Master

Tell me about the Master!
I am weary and worn tonight;
The day lies behind me in shadow,
And only the evening is light!
Light with a radiant glory
That lingers about the west.
My poor heart is weary, aweary,
And longs, like a child, for rest.

Tell me about the Master!
Of the hills he in loneliness trod,
When the tears and blood of his anguish,
Dropped down on Judea’s sod
.For to me life’s seventy mile-stones
But a sorrowful journey mark;
Rough lies the hill country before me,
The mountains behind me are dark.

Tell me about the Master!
Of the wrongs he freely forgave;
Of his love and tender compassion,
Of his love that is mighty to save;
For my heart is aweary, aweary,
Of the woes and temptations of life
,Of the error that stalks in the noonday,
Of falsehood and malice and strife.

Yet I know that whatever of sorrow
Or pain or temptation befall,
The infinite Master hath suffered,
And knoweth and pitieth all.
So tell me the sweet old story,
That falls on each wound like a balm,
And my heart that is bruised and broken
Shall grow patient and strong and calm.

—Poems of Dawn, ppg. 22, 23