Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
    Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet—­sadness;
  Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
    Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;
    Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
    Nor have their being, when compared with thee.

  In having all things, and not thee, what have I? 
    Not having thee, what have my labors got? 
  Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? 
    And having thee alone, what have I not? 
    I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
    Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee!

FRANCIS QUARLES.

* * * * *

THE WILL OF GOD.

  I worship thee, sweet will of God! 
    And all thy ways adore;
  And every day I live, I seem
    To love thee more and more.

  Thou wert the end, the blessed rule
    Of our Saviour’s toils and tears;
  Thou wert the passion of his heart
    Those three and thirty years.

  And he hath breathed into my soul
    A special love of thee,
  A love to lose my will in his,
    And by that loss be free.

  I love to see thee bring to naught
    The plans of wily men;
  When simple hearts outwit the wise,
    Oh, thou art loveliest then.

  The headstrong world it presses hard
    Upon the church full oft,
  And then how easily thou turn’st
    The hard ways into soft.

  I love to kiss each print where thou
    Hast set thine unseen feet;
  I cannot fear thee, blessed will! 
    Thine empire is so sweet.

  When obstacles and trials seem
    Like prison walls to be,
  I do the little I can do,
    And leave the rest to thee.

  I know not what it is to doubt,
    My heart is ever gay;
  I run no risk, for, come what will,
    Thou always hast thy way.

  I have no cares, O blessed will! 
    For all my cares are thine: 
  I live in triumph, Lord! for thou
    Hast made thy triumphs mine.

  And when it seems no chance or change
    From grief can set me free,
  Hope finds its strength in helplessness,
    And gayly waits on thee.

  Man’s weakness, waiting upon God,
    Its end can never miss,
  For men on earth no work can do
    More angel-like than this.

  Ride on, ride on, triumphantly,
    Thou glorious will, ride on! 
  Faith’s pilgrim sons behind thee take
    The road that thou hast gone.

  He always wins who sides with God,
    To him no chance is lost;
  God’s will is sweetest to him, when
    It triumphs at his cost.

  Ill that he blesses is our good,
    And unblessed good is ill;
  And all is right that seems most wrong. 
    If it be his sweet will.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.