August 22Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business? — Luke 2:49.
Should we not all have the Master's spirit, expressed by His words? The Lord's true saints have no business of their own, for they gave their all to the Lord at consecration. Their business they manage as trustees for the Lord—not to be turned over at their death, in prosperous condition, to their children or their friends, possibly to their injury. It is to be used by the trustee as wisely as he knows how before death; for then his trusteeship ends, and he must render his account—Z '03, 53 (R 3148). To the perfect boy Jesus, it was natural to be engaged in matters pertaining to the Lord. Hence it seemed strange to Him that Joseph and Mary failed to see the propriety of His conduct. Here is a lesson for both young and old—the propriety of engaging in matters pertaining to God. Blessed are they who take to this spontaneously; nor need they be surprised if others, even those nearest and dearest to them, fail to understand their conduct and consider them as acting unjustly, or at least thoughtlessly toward them. Let them content themselves with the reflections that some day others will understand, and that in the meantime they will be satisfied with the Master's praise, if others blame—P '35, 117. Parallel passages: Psa. 40:7-9; Heb. 10:7, 9; John 2:16, 17; 4:31-34; 7:14, 15, 46; 9:4; Matt. 7:28, 29; 10:37; Isa. 50:4; Luke 4:22, 32; Josh. 1:8; Isa. 8:20; Jer. 8:9; Luke 24:27; Acts 17:11; Psa. 1:1-3; 1 Pet. 1:10, 11. Hymns: 309, 49, 315, 154, 116, 260, 22. Poems of Dawn, 47: The Pilgrim. Tower Reading: Z '12, 30 (R 4957). Questions: Have I this week studied and spread God's Word? Why? How? With what fruits? |
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THE PILGRIM
STILL onward through this land of foes
I pass in Pilgrim guise;
I may not stop to seek repose
Where cool the shadow lies;
I may not stoop amid the grass
To pluck earth's fairest flowers,
Nor by her springing fountains pass
The sultry noontide hours.
Yet flowers I wear upon my breast
That no earth-garden knows—
White lilies of immortal peace,
And love's deep-tinted rose;
And there the blue-eyed flowers of faith
And hope's bright buds of gold,
As lone I tread the upward path,
In richest hues unfold.
I keep mine armor ever on,
For foes beset my way;
I watch, lest passing on alone
I fall a helpless prey.
No earthly love have I—I lean
Upon no mortal breast;
But my Beloved, though unseen,
Walks near and gives me rest.
Painful and dark the pathway seems
To distant earthly eyes;
They only see the hedging thorns
On either side that rise;
They cannot know how soft between
The flowers of love are strewn.
The sunny ways, the pastures green,
Where Jesus leads His own;
They cannot see, as darkening clouds
Behind the Pilgrim close,
How far adown the western glade
The golden glory flows;
They cannot hear 'mid earthly din
The song to Pilgrims known,
Still blending with the angels' hymn
Around the wondrous throne.
So I Thy bounteous token-flowers
Still on my bosom wear;
While me the fleeting love-winged hours
To Thee still nearer bear;
So from my lips Thy song shall flow,
My sweetest music be;
So on mine eyes the glory grow,
Till all is lost in Thee.
STILL onward through this land of foes
I pass in Pilgrim guise;
I may not stop to seek repose
Where cool the shadow lies;
I may not stoop amid the grass
To pluck earth's fairest flowers,
Nor by her springing fountains pass
The sultry noontide hours.
Yet flowers I wear upon my breast
That no earth-garden knows—
White lilies of immortal peace,
And love's deep-tinted rose;
And there the blue-eyed flowers of faith
And hope's bright buds of gold,
As lone I tread the upward path,
In richest hues unfold.
I keep mine armor ever on,
For foes beset my way;
I watch, lest passing on alone
I fall a helpless prey.
No earthly love have I—I lean
Upon no mortal breast;
But my Beloved, though unseen,
Walks near and gives me rest.
Painful and dark the pathway seems
To distant earthly eyes;
They only see the hedging thorns
On either side that rise;
They cannot know how soft between
The flowers of love are strewn.
The sunny ways, the pastures green,
Where Jesus leads His own;
They cannot see, as darkening clouds
Behind the Pilgrim close,
How far adown the western glade
The golden glory flows;
They cannot hear 'mid earthly din
The song to Pilgrims known,
Still blending with the angels' hymn
Around the wondrous throne.
So I Thy bounteous token-flowers
Still on my bosom wear;
While me the fleeting love-winged hours
To Thee still nearer bear;
So from my lips Thy song shall flow,
My sweetest music be;
So on mine eyes the glory grow,
Till all is lost in Thee.
