April 5My mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips, when I remember thee upon my bed, and meditate on thee in the night watches — Psa. 63:5, 6.
Prayer is not a privilege merely, but also a necessity—commanded as indispensable to our Christian growth. Whoever loses the desire to thank and worship and commune with the Father of mercies, may rest assured that he is losing the very spirit of sonship, and should promptly seek and remove the barrier—the world, the flesh or the devil. Every additional evidence of the Lord's confidence in us by the revealing to us of His character and Plan, so far from diminishing our worship and prayers, should multiply them. If our hearts are good soil, they will bring forth the more abundantly—Z '96, 161 (R 2004). Whoever acts as a mouthpiece of Christ proclaims joyful doctrines; for God's eternal purpose is replete with blessing for all, reflects credit upon the Father and displays His wisdom, justice, love and power. Resting upon the Truth, as a bed, and contemplating the mercies of God in seasons of distress, the Christian may proclaim the Lord's Plan and thereby praise the Father's character. Our chief object in proclaiming the Lord's Word should be to manifest to others how praiseworthy, appreciable and adorable Jehovah our God and Father is!—P '34, 36. Parallel passages: Lev. 7:12; Psa. 34:1; 50:14, 23; 69:30, 31; 107:22; 116:17; 119:97; Isa. 63:7; Hos. 14:2; Eph. 5:19, 20; Col. 3:17; Phil. 4:6; 1 Thes. 5:18; 2 Thes. 1:3; 1 Pet. 2:5; 4:11. Hymns: 238, 23, 49, 296, 116, 44, 260. Poems of Dawn, 268: My Psalm. Tower Reading: Z '15, 311 (R 5785). Questions: Have my meditations and speech this week been on the Lord's Word and Character? Under what circumstances? With what results? |
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MY PSALM
I MOURN no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.
The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear,
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar,
The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south winds softly sigh,
And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,
Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,—
To build as to destroy;
Nor less my heart for others feel,
That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings underserved
Have marked mine erring track;—
That whensoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back;—
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good;—
And death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight;—
That care and trial seem at last,
Through memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast,—
The purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of the strife
Now rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.
I MOURN no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.
The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear,
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar,
The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south winds softly sigh,
And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,
Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,—
To build as to destroy;
Nor less my heart for others feel,
That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings underserved
Have marked mine erring track;—
That whensoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back;—
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good;—
And death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight;—
That care and trial seem at last,
Through memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast,—
The purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of the strife
Now rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.
