THE CHILD OF THE MAID (continued)

Thou art the Highest's son!

All this the angel told me,

And so I'm sure it's true,

For he told me who was coming,-
And that sweet thing is YOU.”

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;-

-He trod the long way, lone and lorn, -He wore the bitter crown of thorn, -His hands and feet and heart were torn, -He died at last the Death of Scorn. But through His coming Death was slain, That you and I might live again.

For this The Child of The Maid was born, On Christmas Day in the morning.

WASTED?

Think not of any one of them as wasted,
Or to the void like broken tools outcasted,—
Unnoticed, unregretted, and unknown.
Not so is His care shown.

Know this!

In God's economy there is no waste,
As in His Work no slackening, no haste;
But noiselessly, without a sign,

The measure of His vast design

Is all fulfilled, exact as He hath willed.

And His good instruments He tends with care,
Lest aught their future usefulness impair,-
As Master-craftsman his choice tools doth tend,
Respecting each one as a trusty friend,
Cleans them, and polishes, and puts away,
For his good usage at some future day;—
So He unto Himself has taken these,
Not to their loss but to their vast increase.
To us, the loss, the emptiness, the pain;
But unto them-all high eternal gain.

SHORTENED LIVES

To us it seemed his life was too soon done,
Ended, indeed, while scarcely yet begun;
God, with His clearer vision, saw that he
Was ready for a larger ministry.

Just so we thought of Him, whose life below
Was so full-charged with bitterness and woe,
Our clouded vision would have crowned Him
King,

He chose the lowly way of suffering.

Remember, too, how short His life on earth,But three-and-thirty years 'twixt death and birth. And of those years but three whereof we know, Yet those three years immortal seed did sow.

It is not tale of years that tells the whole
Of Man's success or failure, but the soul
He brings to them, the songs he sings to them,
The steadfast gaze he fixes on the goal.

LAGGARD SPRING

Winter hung about the ways,

Very loth to go.

Little Spring could not get past him,

Try she never so.

This side, that side, everywhere,

Winter held the track.

Little Spring sat down and whimpered,

Winter humped his back.

Summer called her,-"Come, dear, come!

Why do you delay?"

"Come and help me, Sister Summer,

Winter blocks my way."

Little Spring tried everything,

Sighs and moans and tears,

Winter howled with mocking laughter,

Covered her with jeers.

LAGGARD SPRING (continued)

Winter, rough old surly beggar,
Practised every vice,

4

Pelted her with hail and snow storms,
Clogged her feet with ice.

But, by chance at last they caught him
Unawares one day,

Tied his hands and feet, and dancing,
Sped upon their way.