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THE SABBATH YEAR

Heb. iv. 10.

          Oft comes to me a blessed hour,
               A wondrous hour and still--
          With empty hands I lay me down,
               No more to work or will.
          
          An hour when weary thought has ceased,
               The eyes are closed in rest;
          And, hushed in Heaven's untroubled peace,
               I lie upon Thy breast.
          
          Erewile I reasoned of Thy truth,
               I searched with toil and care;
          From morn to night I tilled my field,
               And yet my field was bare.
          
          Now, fed with corn from fields of Heaven
               The fruit of Hands Divine,
          I pray no prayer, for all is given,
               The Bread of God is mine.
          
          There lie my books--for all I sought
               My heart possesses now.
          The words are sweet that tell They love,
               The love itself art Thou.
          
          One line I read--and then no more--
               I close the book to see
          No more the symbol and the sign,
               But Christ revealed to me.
          
          And thus my worship is, delight--
               My work, to see His Face,
          With folded hands and silent lips
               Within His Holy place.
          
          Thus oft to busy men I seem
               A cumberer of the soil;
          The dreamer of an empty dream,
               Whilst others delve and toil.
          
          O brothers! in these silent hours
               God's miracles are wrought;
          He giveth His beloved in sleep
               A treasure all unsought.
          
          I sit an infant at His feet
               Where moments teach me more
          Than all the toil, and all the books
               Of all the ages hoar.
          
          I sought the truth, and found but doubt--
               I wandered far abroad;
          I hail the truth already found
               Within the heart of God.

G. T. S.


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