Restful Thoughts for a Quiet Hour

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12609, 20 November 1926, Page 12

Restful Thoughts for a Quiet Hour

CHOICE SAYINGS It is better to have all goods even in a less degree, than great goods with great evil, just as it is better to have the stature of Zacchaeus with sound health than the stature <>i Goliath with fever.—S. Augustiuo. Condescend to men of low estate. Bring thyself down to their humble condition, ride or walk with them; reach forth thy hand to them, as a father taking care of a child. This is acting nobly. He that has learned to make his boast in tho Lord will never he unduly elated respecting himself, but will be moderate at all times, and thankful under all circumstances. — Chrysostom. Tho very surface of a parable, if considered only from without, is beautiful indeed; but whoso cracks tho nut will find in it a kernel still pleasanter and far more delightful.— S. Bernard. .... Tho men and women wlio are lifting the world upward and onward, are those who encourage more than criticise. Knowledge is destroyed by associating with tho base; with equals equality is gained, and with the distinguished, distinction. SELECTED PASSAGES I am tho true vine, and my Father .is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit He taketh away; aud every branch that beareth fruit, He purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me. 1 am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and 1 in him, the same bringeth forth mnch fruit; for without me yo can do no tiling.—St. John, 15, l-o. ______ A PRAYER Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised. Beautiful is Thy city, and glorious the place where Thou revealest Thyself to Thv chosen. Into that refuge of the souls of men, into tho peace of Thy presence, and tho temple of Thy worship, gather Thy people this day. In every assembly of the saints let the glory of the Eternal be revealed. Shepherd of souls, seek that which is lost, bring again that which is driven away, bind up that which is broken, strengthen that which is weak. Let the church exult in her Lord, in His precious blood and saving power, in the witness borne to His name. Let Thy praise go forth to the ends of the earth, the praise of the righteousness, wherewith Thou dost endure Thy people, the loving kindness Thou dost show them, the victory over fear and death. Thou hast assured to them through Jesus Christ. Thou who of old dids’t deliver Israel from the slavery of Egypt grant now the great enfranchisement of souls. Thou who did’st settle Thy folk in the midst of their enemies, give neace and gladness to Thy church, and make strong the bulwarks cf Zion. Hear, forgive, and answer us in Jesus Christ.' Amen. '

THE MISSIONARY’S MESSAGE Tjelt of Jesus to the children! He is still the children’s friend; As the tender loving Shepherd, Still He loves the lambs to tend. Tell of how He called them to Him, Hushed their infantile alarms; Put His gracious hand upon them, ■ Took them up into His arms. Tell. the mothers and the fathers, Of the Saviour in their toil. As they lnbour in the homestead, As they labour on the soil. Tell them, Jesus calls them-to Him; All who labour, all who hear. How He longs to give them resting, And each load to lift and share. Tell of Jesus to the guilty, Outcasts of the world’s false pride; Tell them Jesus healed the lepers, Called the outcasts to His bide. Tell of Jesus to the straying: Prodigals who still are loved: To the Father Ho will bring them, Weeping, pardoned, ana approved. Tell of Jesus to the aged! Growing weaker every day: Tell them of. His grace unceasing, Still in ajte their staff and stay. Tell, of Jesus to the dying! Jesus who Himself has died. Jesus. Victor o’er the tyrant, Now for ever glorified. —WILLIAM LUFF.

FAVOURITE HYMN Open my eyes that 1 may see Glimpses of truth Thou hast for me; Place iu my hands the wonderful key That shall unclasp and set me free,. Silently now I wait for Thee, lleady, my God. Thy will to see; Open my eyes, illumine me, Spirit divine! Open niv ears that I may hear Voices of truth Thou sendest clear; And while the wavenotes fall on my ear, Everything fale will disappear Silently now I wait for Thee, Beady, my God, Thy wll to see; Open my ears, illumine me, Spirit divine! Open mv mouth and let me hear Gladly the warm truth everywhere, Open my heart and let me prepare Love with Thy children thus to share. Silently now I wait for Thee, Ready, my God, Thy will to see; Open my heart, illumine me, Spirit divine! “BLESSED ARE THE DEAD** (A one-minute sermon by Robert Murray McCheyne, Glasgow.) “Blessed are the dead which die iu the Lord from henceforth: Yea, said the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.”—Rev. 14, 13. “Blessed are the dead.” The world says: Blessed the the living; but God says: Blessed are the dead. The world judge of things by sense—as they outwardly appear to man. God judges of things by what they really are in themselves—He looks at things in their real colour and magnitude. The world says: ‘‘Better is a living dog than a dead lion.” The world looks upon some of their families, coming out like a fresh blooming flower in the morning—their cheeks covered with the bloom of health, their step bounding with the elasticity of youth—riches and luxuries at their command—long bright summer days before them. The world says: ‘‘There is a happy soul.” God takes us into the darkened room, where some child of God lately dwelt. He points to the pale faoe where death sirs enthroned, the cheek wasted by long disease, the eye glased in death, the stiff hands clasped over the bosom, the friends standing weeping around, and He whispers in our ears: ‘‘Blessed are the dead.” Ah, friends, think a moment—whether does God or you know best ? Who will be found to’ he in the right at last? Alas, what a vain show you are walking in’ Disquieted in vain. “Man that is in honour. and understandeth not, is like the beasts that perish.” Even God’s children’s sometimes say. “Blessed are the Living.” It is a happy thing to live in the favour of God. to have peace with God, to frequent the throne of God. l-o burn the perpetual incense of praise., to meditate on His Word, to hear the preached gospel, to serve God, eveo to wrestle, and run, and fight in Hi* service, is sweet. Still, God says, “Blessed are the dead.” If it be happy to have His smile here, how much happier to have it without a ' >ud yonder! If it be sweet to he tho growing corn of the Lord here, how much better to be gathered into His barn 1 If it be sweet to have an anchor within the veil, how much better ourselves to he there!

“To see without a veil between His unbeclouded face.” In “Thy presence is fullness of joy; at Thy right hand are pleasures forever more.” Even Jesus felt this— God attests it. “Blessed are the dead.” Not all the dead, hoy ever, but only those who “die in the Lord.” It is truly amazing the multitudes that die. “Thou carriest them away as with a flood.” Seventy fhousand die every day, about fifty every minute, nearly one every second pasting over the verge. Life is like a stream made up of human beings, pouring on, and rushing over the brink into eternity. Are all these blessed? Ah. no! “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.” Of all that vast multitude continually pouring into the eternal world, a little company alone have savingly believed in Jesus. “Strait is the gate and narrow is the way that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” It is not all the dead who are blessed. There is no blessing on the Christless dead; tbev rush «n into an undone eternity. unpardoneA, unholy. You may put their bodv in a splendid coffin ; you mav print tlieir name in silver on the lid; you may bring the wcl'.-attired company of mourners to tho funeral, in suits of solemn black; you mav lay the coffin slowly in the grave; you mav spread the greenest sod above it: vou may train the sweetest flowers to grow over it: you may cut a white stone; and grave a gcntlo epitaph to their memory—still it is the funeral of a lost eon!. You cannot write “blessed” where God has wiitten “cursed.” “He • that believeth shall be saved : he that beliereth not shall be condemned.”