Lord, What Wilt Thou Have Me To

It Is Not With A Rush And A Spring That We Are To Reach Christ's Character, And Attain To Perfect Saintship; But Step By Step, Foot By Foot, Hand Over Hand, We Are Slowly And Often Painfully To Mount The Ladder That Rests On Earth, And Rises To Heaven.

Perhaps God Does With His Heavenly Garden As We Do With Our Own. He May Chiefly Stock It From Nurseries, And Select For Transplanting What Is Yet In Its Young And Tender Age--flowers Before They Have Bloomed And Trees Ere They Begin To Bear.

The Christian Is Not Always Praying; But Within His Bosom Is A Heaven-kindled Love--fires Of Desire, Fervent Longings--which Make Him Always Ready To Pray, And Often Engage Him In Prayer.

Sin! Sin! Thou Art A Hateful And Horrible Thing, That Abominable Thing Which God Hates. And What Wonder? Thou Hast Insulted His Holy Majesty; Thou Hast Bereaved Him Of Beloved Children; Thou Hast Crucified The Son Of His Infinite Love; Thou Hast Vexed His Gracious Spirit; Thou Hast Defied His Power; Thou Hast Despised His Grace; And In The Body And Blood Of Jesus, As If That Were A Common Thing, Thou Hast Trodden Under Foot His Matchless Mercy. Surely, Brethren, The Wonder Of Wonders Is, That Sin Is Not That Abominable Thing Which We Also Hate.

The Mental Powers Acquire Their Full Robustness When The Cheek Loses Its Ruddy Hue, And The Limbs Their Elastic Step; And Pale Thought Sits On Manly Brows, And The Watchman, As He Walks His Rounds, Sees The Student's Lamp Burning Far Into The Silent Night.