October 21Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name — Luke 11:2.
This expresses adoration, appreciation of Divine goodness and greatness, and a corresponding reverence. In addressing our petition to the Lord our first thought is to be, not a selfish one respecting ourselves, nor a thought respecting the interests of others precious to us, but God is to be first in all our thoughts and aims and calculations. We are to pray for nothing that would not be in accord with the honor of our Heavenly Father's name; we are to wish for nothing for ourselves, or for our dear ones, that He would not fully approve and commission us to pray for. Perhaps no quality of heart is in greater danger of being blotted out among professing Christians than this thought of reverence for God—Z '04, 118 (R 3351). God does for His children all and more than a good earthly father does for his children. Accordingly He begets, loves, fellowships, provides for, trains, prepares and gives an inheritance to His children. As our Heavenly Father, He does all of these things in the superlative degree. Most appropriately, therefore, should we hallow His name. This we do when we give Him the supreme reverence and devotion of our hearts, minds, souls and strength. This implies in ultimate analysis such conduct on our part as crystallizes Christlikeness in us, and fits us for the Kingdom. Nor do we desire to give Him a less honor—P '26, 156. Parallel passages: Isa. 63:17; Matt. 5:44, 45; 6:4; 8:13; Rom. 8:15; 1 Cor. 8:6; 2 Cor. 1:3; 6:18; Gal. 4:4-7; Eph. 1:3, 17; 3:14; 5:20; Col. 1:3, 12; Jas. 1:17; 1 John 3:1; Rev. 3:5; 14:1. Hymns: 11, 45, 46, 83, 89, 193, 176. Poems of Dawn, 255: The Divine Weaving. Tower Reading: Z '14, 8 (R 5378). Questions: Did I this week glorify God's Name? How? Under what circumstances? With what results? |
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THE DIVINE WEAVING
SEE the mystic Weaver sitting
High in Heaven—His loom below;
Up and down the treadles go.
Takes, for web, the world's dark ages,
Takes, for woof, the kings and sages,
Takes the nobles and their pages,
Takes all nations and all stages.
Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle,
Armies make them scud and scuttle—
Web into the woof must flow;
Up and down the nations go!
At the Weaver's will they go!
Calmly see the mystic Weaver
Throw His shuttle to and fro;
'Mid the noise and wild confusion,
Well the Weaver seems to know
What each motion, and commotion,
What each fusion, and confusion,
In the grand result will show!
Glorious wonder! What a weaving!
To the dull, beyond believing!
Such no fables ages know,
Only faith can see the Mystery,
How along the aisles of history,
Where the feet of sages go,
Loveliest to the fairest eyes,
Grand the mystic tapet lies!
Soft and smooth, and ever-spreading,
As if made for angel's treading—
Tufted circles touching ever:
Every figure has its plaidings,
Brighter forms and softer shadings,
Each illumined—what a riddle—
From a cross that gems the middle.
'Tis a saying—some reject it—
That its light is all reflected;
That the tapet's lines are given
By a Sun that shines in Heaven!
'Tis believed—by all believing—
That great God, Himself, is weaving,
Bringing out the world's dark Mystery,
In the light of faith and history;
And, as a web and woof diminish,
Comes the grand and glorious finish,
When begin the Golden Ages,
Long foretold by seers and sages.
SEE the mystic Weaver sitting
High in Heaven—His loom below;
Up and down the treadles go.
Takes, for web, the world's dark ages,
Takes, for woof, the kings and sages,
Takes the nobles and their pages,
Takes all nations and all stages.
Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle,
Armies make them scud and scuttle—
Web into the woof must flow;
Up and down the nations go!
At the Weaver's will they go!
Calmly see the mystic Weaver
Throw His shuttle to and fro;
'Mid the noise and wild confusion,
Well the Weaver seems to know
What each motion, and commotion,
What each fusion, and confusion,
In the grand result will show!
Glorious wonder! What a weaving!
To the dull, beyond believing!
Such no fables ages know,
Only faith can see the Mystery,
How along the aisles of history,
Where the feet of sages go,
Loveliest to the fairest eyes,
Grand the mystic tapet lies!
Soft and smooth, and ever-spreading,
As if made for angel's treading—
Tufted circles touching ever:
Every figure has its plaidings,
Brighter forms and softer shadings,
Each illumined—what a riddle—
From a cross that gems the middle.
'Tis a saying—some reject it—
That its light is all reflected;
That the tapet's lines are given
By a Sun that shines in Heaven!
'Tis believed—by all believing—
That great God, Himself, is weaving,
Bringing out the world's dark Mystery,
In the light of faith and history;
And, as a web and woof diminish,
Comes the grand and glorious finish,
When begin the Golden Ages,
Long foretold by seers and sages.
