Every present gift of good
To Eternal Love I owe.

Source of all that comforts me!
Well of joy for which I long!
Let the song I sing to Thee
Be an everlasting song!

ANNA L. WARING.

66

"My little song of praise
In sweet content I sing:
To Thee the note I raise,
My King! My King!

"I cannot tell the art

By which such bliss is given:

I know Thou hast my heart,

And I have heaven."

FULNESS OF LIFE.

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow
For him who lives above all years,

Who all-immortal makes the Now,
And is not taken in Time's arrears:
His life's a hymn

The seraphim

Might hark to hear or help to sing;
And to his soul

The boundless whole

Its bounty all doth daily bring.

D. A. WASSON.

MY CUP RUNNETH OVER.

WHEREFORE drink with me, friends! It is no draught Of red intoxication: at its brim

No vine-wreathed head of Bacchus ever laughed,

This pilgrim cup of mine, now worn and dim
With time's rough usage, no bright bubbles swim,
Or foam-beads sparkle over. Have ye quaffed
The waters clear that through green pastures glide,
Where they who love the Shepherd follow Him?
Brimmed with His peace, my soul is satisfied;
Cooled are my feverish fancies; calmed the stir
Of dreams whose end was only bitterness.
Healed at this fount our inmost ail would be,
Did we but health above disease prefer!

My cup is filled at wells whose blessedness

A world's thirst cannot drain. Friends, drink with me!

FULNESS OF LIFE.

"That ye might be filled with all the fulness of God."

EPHESIANS iii. 19.

HE Apostle says, "Now unto Him that is

THE

able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we can ask or think." What a vision he must have had! How grandly in that moment did the divine thought rise before his enrapt mind, when he so linked words together,—joining golden word to golden word, as if he fain would encompass it with a chain, seeking by combinations to express what no one word would embody. "Above all that we can ask or think!" How much can a man ask or think? When the deepest convictions of sin are upon him, in his hour of dark despondency, in some perilous pass of life, when fears come upon his soul as storms on

the Lake of Galilee, consider how much a man then asks! Or when love dwells in his soul, and makes life as full as mountains make the streams in spring, and when hope is the sun by day and the moon by night, —in those gloriously elate hours when he seems no longer fixed to space and time, but, mounting as if the body were forgotten by the soul, wings his way through the realms of aspiration and conception, how much a man then thinks! What epic can equal those unwritten words which pour into the ear of God out of the heart's fulness! Still more, those unspoken words which never find the lip, but go up to heaven in unutterable longings and aspirations.

If we dwelt more upon God's fulness, and His desire to make us partakers of it, our Christian character would be richer. There is nothing in His nature which is not measureless. The view of His plenitude will give us hope of rectitude in life, and of glorification in heaven, not because of our feeble longing, but because of God's infinite desire for us.