’Tis a wonderful Chorister made us to sing, And taught every warbler its lays; And His rapturous voice leads the angels in song; And His name is the Ancient of Days! ’Tis a wonderful Architect builded the earth; We read His great heart in His ways; In the sweet and the beautiful mirrored He lives; And His name is the Ancient of Days! ’Tis a wondrous Philosopher balanced the clouds, And weaves the bright sunshine with haze; And waters the earth with the dew and the rains; And His name is the Ancient of Days! His arm never wearies; His heart never faints, For strength to guide worlds on their ways; And all the bright comets that rush through the sky, Heed the voice of the Ancient of Days! His heart is the gladdest of all the glad hearts That join in the anthem of praise; Yet none grieves like Him o’er the loss of the soul, Because He’s the Ancient of Days. His voice is the sweetest in all the glad song In rapture all Heaven to amaze: In all the vast universe naught can compare; With the voice of the Ancient of Days! And with Him in loveliness none can compare; His beauty is great as His ways. And those who behold Him are changed by His smile, Because He is Ancient of Days! His age shows no weakness; His beauty and truth Shine ever ’mid cycles of praise. Forever He keepeth “the dew of His youth,” Because He is Ancient of Days! I long for His teaching; I long to behold, And sing with the angels His praise. And soon I shall see Him, see Him _as He is_, Our Saviour, the Ancient of Days. LITTLE SHOES Trudge, trudge, trudge, two little bright shoes; Two tiny feet move you along; Soft, dimpled fingers play with you oft; Two rosy lips are learning a song. Trudge, trudge, trudge, two little bright shoes; Two sparkling eyes laugh as you skip. Don’t run too fast when papa comes home, The big tears fall whenever you slip. Trudge, trudge, trudge! O come, little shoes, Baby must rest, and not walk all day. Baby must sleep, and two little feet In the warm coverlet hide them away. Trudge, trudge, trudge, two little bright shoes, Worn at the heel, and worn at the toe, Holding the impress of innocence sweet, And more precious the older they grow. Trudge, trudge, trudge! if all of our feet Went half as far in God’s beautiful way, There would be sunshine over the earth, And the dark places would shine as the day. THERE’S AN ANGEL HERE Don’t be cross if the dishes break: Don’t be cross if the baby wake: There is a pen and a record near; O speak kind,—there’s an angel here! Don’t be harsh if your will be crossed; Life’s great sea may be tempest-tossed; Call on Christ, for the billows kneel, If His hand shall but touch the wheel.