The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants; and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.—PS. xxxiv. 22.


Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.—JOB xiii. 15.


  I praise Thee while my days go on;
  I love Thee while my days go on:
  Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
  With emptied arms and treasure lost,
  I thank Thee while my days go on.



The sickness of the last week was fine medicine; pain disintegrated the spirit, or became spiritual. I rose,—I felt that I had given to God more perhaps than an angel could,—had promised Him in youth that to be a blot on this fair world, at His command, would be acceptable. Constantly offer myself to continue the obscurest ‘and loneliest thing ever heard of, with one proviso,—His agency. Yes, love Thee, and all Thou dost, while Thou sheddest frost and darkness on every path of mine.