SHE BROUGHT HER BOX OF ALABASTER She brought her box of alabaster; The precious spikenard filled the room With honor worthy of the Master, A costly, rare, and rich perfume. Her tears for sin fell hot and thickly On his dear feet, outstretched and bare; Unconscious how, she wiped them quickly With the long ringlets of her hair. And richly fall those raven tresses Adown her cheek, like willow leaves, As stooping still, with fond caresses, She plies her task of love, and grieves. Oh may we thus, like loving Mary, Ever our choicest offerings bring, Nor grudging of our toil, nor chary Of costly service to our King. Methinks I hear from Christian lowly Some hallowed voice at evening rise, Or quiet morn, or in the holy Unclouded calm of Sabbath skies; I bring my box of alabaster, Of earthly loves I break the shrine, And pour affections, purer, vaster, On that dear head, those feet of thine. The joys I prized, the hopes I cherished, The fairest flowers my fancy wove, Behold my fondest idols perished, Receive the incense of my love! What though the scornful world, deriding, Such waste of love, of service, fears? Still let me pour, through taunt and chiding, The rich libation of my tears. I bring my box of alabaster; Accepted let the offering rise! So grateful tears shall flow the faster, In founts of gladness from mine eyes! --C. L. Ford. Not I but Christ be honored, loved, exalted, Not I but Christ be seen, be known, be heard, Not I but Christ in every look and action, Not I but Christ in every thought and word. JESUS, I LOVE THEE Jesus, I love thee, not because I hope for heaven thereby, Nor yet because, if I love not, I must forever die. I love thee, Saviour dear, and still I ever will love thee, Solely because my God, thou art, Who first hast loved me. For me to lowest depth of woe Thou didst thyself abase; For me didst bear the cross and shame, And manifold disgrace; For me didst suffer pain unknown, Blood-sweat and agony-- Yea, death itself--all, all for me, Who was thine enemy. Then why, O blessed Saviour mine. Should I not love thee well? Not for the sake of winning heaven Nor of escaping hell. Not with the hope of gaining aught, Nor seeking a reward; But freely, fully, as thyself Hast loved me, O Lord! Even so I love thee, and will love, And in thy praise will sing, Solely because thou art my God And my eternal king. --Francis Xavier. I'VE FOUND A JOY IN SORROW