Should pining sickness waste away
My life in premature decay,

My Father, still I strive to say,
"Thy will be done!"

If but my fainting heart be blest
With thy sweet Spirit for its guest,
My God, to thee I leave the rest—
"Thy will be done!"

Renew my will from day to day,
Blend it with thine, and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
"Thy will be done!"

Then when on earth I breathe no more
The prayer oft mixed with tears before,
I'll sing upon a happier shore,

"Thy will be done!"

Our Home.

ANONYMOUS.

LIFE's sun a longer shadow throws,
And all things whisper of repose;
Our toilsome journey soon will close,
And we shall reach our home!

Here we no resting-place have found; Unnumbered dangers lurk around, Temptations, snares, and griefs abound; Earth cannot be our home.

On let us press with cheerful haste,
Nor precious moments idly waste;
For, oh! we long those joys to taste
Which are reserved at home.

Only a narrow stream doth flow
Between this dreary waste of woe
And that fair land where richly grow

The lovely flowers of home.

Its peaceful waters softly glide,

And Christ through them our steps will guide, And land us on the other side,

Where we shall be at home.

Some cherished friends have gone before;
Their conflicts and their toils are o'er,
And we shall meet to part no more,
When we have gained our home.

Their songs of welcome, sweet and clear,
Will soon be falling on our ear;

For we are drawing very near
Unto our happy home.

No clouds of sorrow gather there;
Hushed is the latest thought of care;
Perpetual joys those loved ones share
Within our Father's home.

Life's sun a longer shadow throws,
And all things whisper of repose;
Our toilsome journey soon will close,
And we shall reach OUR HOME.

THE END.

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