Had God in heaven no work to do, But miracles of love for thee? No world to rule, no joy in self, And in his own infinity? So must it seem to our blind eyes; He gave His love no Sabbath rest, Still plotting happiness for men, And now designs to make them blest. From out His glorious bosom came His only, His eternal Son; He freed the race of Satan's slaves, And with His blood sin's captives won. The world rose up against his love: New love the vile rebellion met, As though God only looked at sin, Its guilt to pardon and forget. For His Eternal Spirit came, To raise the thankless slaves to sons, And with the sevenfold gifts of love To crown His own elected ones. Men spurned His grace, their lips blasphemed The Love who made Himself their slave; They grieved that blessed Comforter, And turned against Him what He gave. Yet still the sun is fair by day, The moon still beautiful by night; The world goes round, and joy with it, And life, free life, is men's delight. No voice God's wondrous silence breaks; No hand put forth, His anger tells; And He, the Omnipotent and Dread, On high in humblest patience dwells. The Son hath come; and maddened sin The world's Creator crucified; The Spirit comes, and stays, while men, His presence doubt, His gifts deride. And now the Father keeps Himself, In patient and forbearing love, To be His creature's heritage, In that undying life above. O wonderful, O passing thought! The love that God hath had for thee, Spending on thee no less a sum Than the undivided Trinity. Father and Son, and Holy Ghost, Exhausted for a thing like this,-- The world's whole government disposed For one ungrateful creature's bliss. What hast thou done for God, my soul? Look o'er thy misspent years and see; Cry for thy worse than nothingness; Cry for His mercy upon thee. --_F. W. Faber._ Some murmur when their sky is clear, And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue. And some with thankful love are filled, If but one streak of light, One ray of God's good mercy, gild The darkness of their night. In palaces are hearts that ask, In discontent and pride, Why life is such a dreary task, And all good things denied: And hearts in poorest huts admire How love has in their aid (Love that not ever seems to tire) Such rich provision made. --_Richard Chenevix Trench._ IF THOU COULDST KNOW. I think if thou couldst know, O soul that will complain, What lies concealed below Our burden and our pain; How just our anguish brings Nearer those longed-for things We seek for now in vain,-- I think thou wouldst rejoice, and not complain.