No distant Lord have I, Loving afar to be; Made flesh for me, he cannot rest Unless he rests in me.

Brother in joy and pain, Bone of my bone was he, Now--intimacy closer still, He dwells himself in me.

I need not journey far This dearest Friend to see; Companionship is always mine, He makes his home with me.

I envy not the twelve, Nearer to me is he; The life he once lived here on earth He lives again in me.

Ascended now to G.o.d, My witness there to be, His witness here am I, because His Spirit dwells in me.

O glorious Son of G.o.d, Incarnate Deity, I shall forever be with thee Because thou art with me.

--Maltbie D. Babc.o.c.k.

"WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT?"

If I lay waste and wither up with doubt The blessed fields of heaven where once my faith Possessed itself serenely safe from death; If I deny the things past finding out; Or if I orphan my own soul of One That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in power and grace, What do I gain that am myself undone?

--William Dean Howells.

[Footnote 1: The poems by the Rev. Maltbie D. Babc.o.c.k on this and the following page are reprinted, by special permission, from "Thoughts for Every Day Living," copyright, 1901, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]

EMANc.i.p.aTION

Why be afraid of Death as though your life were breath!

Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O glad surprise!

Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.

Why should you fear to meet the thresher of the wheat?

Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping, you are dead Till you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.

Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench, Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?

The dear ones left behind! O foolish one and blind.

A day--and you will meet,--a night--and you will greet!

This is the death of Death, to breathe away a breath And know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life,

And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear, And work, nor care nor rest, and find the last the best.

--Maltbie D. Babc.o.c.k.

SCHOOL DAYS

Lord, let me make this rule: To think of life as school, And try my best To stand each test, And do my work And nothing shirk.

Should some one else outshine This dullard head of mine, Should I be sad?

I will be glad.

To do my best Is thy behest.

If weary with my book I cast a wistful look Where posies grow, Oh, let me know That flowers within Are best to win.

Dost take my book away Anon to let me play, And let me out To run about?

I grateful bless Thee for recess.

Then recess past, alack, I turn me slowly back, On my hard bench, My hands to clench, And set my heart To learn my part.

These lessons thou dost give To teach me how to live, To do, to bear, To get and share, To work and pray And trust alway.

What though I may not ask To choose my daily task, Thou hast decreed To meet my need.

What pleases thee That shall please me.

Some day the bell will sound, Some day my heart will bound, As with a shout, That school is out, And, lessons done, I homeward run.

--Maltbie D. Babc.o.c.k.

CATHOLIC LOVE

Weary of all this wordy strife, These notions, forms, and modes, and names, To Thee, the Way, the Truth, the Life, Whose love my simple heart inflames, Divinely taught, at last I fly, With Thee, and Thine, to live and die.

Redeemed by Thine almighty grace, I taste my glorious liberty, With open arms the world embrace, But cleave to those who cleave to Thee; But only in thy saints delight, Who walk with G.o.d in purest white.

My brethren, friends, and kinsmen these, Who do my heavenly Father's will; Who aim at perfect holiness, And all Thy counsels to fulfill, Athirst to be whate'er Thou art And love their G.o.d with all their heart.

--Charles Wesley.

WHAT MATTER

What matter, friend, though you and I May sow and others gather?

We build and others occupy, Each laboring for the other?

What though we toil from sun to sun, And men forget to flatter The n.o.blest work our hands have done-- If G.o.d approves, what matter?

What matter, though we sow in tears, And crops fail at the reaping?

What though the fruit of patient years Fast perish in our keeping?

Upon our h.o.a.rded treasures, floods Arise, and tempests scatter-- If faith beholds, beyond the clouds, A clearer sky, what matter?

What matter, though our castles fall, And disappear while building; Though "strange handwritings on the wall"

Flame out amid the gilding?

Though every idol of the heart The hand of death may shatter, Though hopes decay and friends depart, If heaven be ours, what matter?

--H. W. Teller.