We write our lives indeed, But in a cipher none can read, Except the author

CHRISTMAS DAY Jesus came! - and came for me. Simple words! and yet expressing Depths of holy mystery, Depths of wondrous love and blessing. Holy Spirit, make me see All His coming means for me Take the things of Christ, I pray, Show them to my heart today.

Doubt indulged soon becomes doubt realized.

Take my will, and make it Thine, It shall be no longer mine Take my heart, it is Thine own It shall be Thy royal throne.

Hidden in the hollow Of His blessed hand, Never foe can follow, Never traitor stand Not a surge of worry, Not a shade of care, Not a blast of hurry Touch the Spirit there.

We give thanks often with a tearful, doubtful voice, for our spiritual mercies positive, but what an almost infinite field there is for mercies negative! We cannot even imagine all that God has allowed us not to do, not to be.

Seldom can the heart be lonely, If it seek a lonelier still Self-forgetting, seeking only Emptier cups of love to fill.

No life can be dreary when work is delight.

Earthly joy can take but a bat-like flight, always checked, always limited, in dusk and darkness. But the love of Christ breaks through the vaulting, and leads us up into the free sky above, expanding to the very throne of Jehovah, and drawing us still upward to the infinite heights of glory.

In perplexities-when we cannot tell what to do, when we cannot understand what is going on around us, let us be calmed and steadied and made patient by the thought that what is hidden from us is not hidden from Him

A great deal of living must go to a very little writing.

Writing is praying with me. You know a child would look up at every sentence and say, 'And what shall I say next?' That is just what I do I ask Him that at every line He would give me not merely thoughts and power, but also every word, even the very rhymes.