So I'll wait a little longer, Till his appointed time, And along the upward pathway My pilgrim feet shall climb. There in my Father's dwelling, Where many mansions be, I shall sweetly talk with Jesus, And he will talk with me. NOTHING TO WISH OR TO FEAR His name yields the richest perfume, And sweeter than music his voice; His presence disperses my gloom, And makes all within me rejoice; I should, were he always thus nigh, Have nothing to wish or to fear; No mortal so happy as I, My summer would last all the year. Content with beholding his face, My all to his pleasure resigned, No changes of season or place Would make any change in my mind; While blest with a sense of his love A palace a toy would appear; And prisons would palaces prove If Jesus would dwell with me there. --John Newton. THE HEART OF GOD There is no love like the love of Jesus, Never to fade or fall Till into the fold of the peace of God He has gathered us all. There is no heart like the heart of Jesus, Filled with a tender lore; Not a throb or throe our hearts can know But he suffered before. There is no voice like the voice of Jesus; Ah! how sweet its chime, Like the musical ring of some rushing spring In the summer-time! O might we listen that voice of Jesus! O might we never roam Till our souls should rest, in peace, on his breast, In the heavenly home! --W. E. Littlewood. THE TOUCH "He touched her hand, and the fever left her." He touched her hand as he only can, With the wondrous skill of the Great Physician, With the tender touch of the Son of man, And the fever-pain in the throbbing temples Died out with the flush on brow and cheek, And the lips that had been so parched and burning Trembled with thanks that she could not speak, And the eyes where the fever light had faded Looked up, by her grateful tears made dim, And she rose and ministered in her household; She rose and ministered unto him. "He touched her hand, and the fever left her." O blessed touch of the Man divine! So beautiful to arise and serve him When the fever is gone from your life and mine. It may be the fever of restless serving With heart all thirsty for love and praise, And eyes all aching and strained with yearning Toward self-set goals in the future days. Or it may be fever of spirit anguish, Some tempest of sorrow that does not down, Till the cross at last is in meekness lifted And the head stoops low for the thorny crown. Or it may be a fever of pain and anger, When the wounded spirit is hard to bear, And only the Lord can draw forth the arrows Left carelessly, cruelly rankling there.