Or art thou friendless and alone-- Hast none in whom thou canst confide? God careth for thee, lonely one-- Comfort and help he will provide. He sees thy sorrows, and thy hidden grief, He knoweth when to send thee quick relief; Be thou content. Thy heart's unspoken pain he knows, Thy secret sighs he hears full well; What to none else thou darest disclose To him thou mayest with boldness tell. He is not far away, but ever nigh, And answereth willingly the poor man's cry: Be thou content. MANNA 'Twas in the night the manna fell That fed the hosts of Israel. Enough for each day's fullest store And largest need; enough, no more. For willful waste, for prideful show, God sent not angels' food below. Still in our nights of deep distress The manna falls our heart to bless. And, famished, as we cry for bread, With heavenly food our lives are fed, And each day's need finds each day's store Enough. Dear Lord, what want we more! --Margaret Elizabeth Sangster. BLESSINGS NEAR AT HAND We look too far for blessings; We seek too far for joys; We ought to be like children Who find their chiefest toys Ofttimes in nearest attic, Or in some dingy lane-- Their aprons full of weeds or flowers Gathered in sun or rain. Within the plainest cottage Unselfish love may grow; The sweetest, the divinest gift, Which mortals ever know. We ought to count our joys, not woes; Meet care with winsome grace; For discontent plows furrows Upon the loveliest face. Hope, freedom, sunlight, knowledge, Come not to wealth alone; He who looks far for blessings Will overlook his own. --Sarah Knowles Bolton. I WOULDN'T A sprig of mint by the wayward brook, A nibble of birch in the wood, A summer day, and love, and a book, And I wouldn't be a king if I could. --John Vance Cheney. The way to make thy son rich is to fill His mind with rest before his trunk with riches: For wealth without contentment climbs a hill To feel those tempests which fly over ditches. --George Herbert. THE JEWEL There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, No chemic art can counterfeit; It makes men rich in greatest poverty, Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, The homely whistle to sweet music's strain; Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, That much in little, all in naught--Content. FINDING CONTENT