Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gathered strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinai's peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Although the trumpet blew so loud. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. * * * * * MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND. My times are in thy hand! I know not what a day Or e'en an hour may bring to me, But I am safe while trusting thee, Though all things fade away. All weakness, I On him rely Who fixed the earth and spread the starry sky. My times are in thy hand! Pale poverty or wealth. Corroding care or calm repose. Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows. Sickness or buoyant health,-- Whate'er betide, If God provide, 'T is for the best; I wish no lot beside. My times are in thy hand! Should friendship pure illume And strew my path with fairest flowers, Or should I spend life's dreary hours In solitude's dark gloom, Thou art a friend. Till time shall end Unchangeably the same; in thee all beauties blend. My times are in thy hand! Many or few, my days I leave with thee,--this only pray, That by thy grace, I, every day Devoting to thy praise, May ready be To welcome thee Whene'er thou com'st to set my spirit free. My times are in thy hand! Howe'er those times may end, Sudden or slow my soul's release, Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace, I'm safe with Christ my friend. If he is nigh, Howe'er I die, 'T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstasy. My times are in thy hand! To thee I can intrust My slumbering clay, till thy command Bids all the dead before thee stand, Awaking from the dust. Beholding thee, What bliss 't will be With all thy saints to spend eternity! To spend eternity In heaven's unclouded light! From sorrow, sin, and frailty free, Beholding and resembling thee,-- O too transporting sight! Prospect too fair For flesh to bear! Haste! haste! my Lord, and soon transport me there! CHRISTOPHER NEWMAN HALL. * * * * * A MYSTICAL ECSTASY.