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Prayer Poems

Table of Contents

  1. One and One by Mary Mapes Dodge
  2. The Morning Bright by T. O. Summers
  3. The Lord's Prayer by Anonymous
  4. An Evening Prayer by Bernard Barton
  5. The Hour of Prayer by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
  6. Minot's Ledge by Fitz-James O'Brien
  7. The Tempest by James T. Fields
  8. A Child's Hymn by F. C. Woodworth
  9. Prayer by Emily Dickinson
  10. My Quiet Hours by Anonymous
  11. Pray! by Amos Russel Wells
  12. Too Tired to Pray by Anonymous
  13. Prayer For The President by Amos Russel Wells
  14. At least to pray is left, is left by Emily Dickinson
  15. My Prayer by Amos Russel Wells
  16. Mothers–And Others by Amos Russel Wells
  1. A Child's Prayer at Evening by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  2. Invitation by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
  3. A New Leaf by Carrie Shaw Rice
  4. A Prayer for a Little Home by London "Spectator."
  5. The Fool's Prayer by Edward R. Sill
  6. A Thankful Heart by Robert Herrick
  7. Kneeling With Herrick by James Whitcomb Riley
  8. Morning Windows by Anonymous
  9. A Mother's Prayer by Anonymous
  10. A Mother's Prayer by Anonymous
  11. A Mother's Prayer by Anonymous
  12. The Prayer on Bunker's Hill by Lydia Sigourney
  13. Now the Day is Over by Sabine Baring-Gould

  1. One and One

    by Mary Mapes Dodge

    Two little girls are better than one,
    Two little boys can double the fun,
    Two little birds can build a fine nest,
    Two little arms can love mother best.
    Two little ponies must go to a span;
    Two little pockets has my little man;

    Two little eyes to open and close,
    Two little ears and one little nose,
    Two little elbows, dimpled and sweet,
    Two little shoes on two little feet,
    Two little lips and one little chin,
    Two little cheeks with a rose shut in;
    Two little shoulders, chubby and strong,
    Two little legs running all day long.
    Two little prayers does my darling say,
    Twice does he kneel by my side each day,
    Two little folded hands, soft and brown,
    Two little eyelids cast meekly down,
    And two little angels guard him in bed,
    "One at the foot, and one at the head."

  2. The Morning Bright

    by T. O. Summers

    The morning bright
    With rosy light,
    Has wak'd me from my sleep;
    Father, I own,
    Thy love alone
    Thy little one doth keep.

    All through the day
    I humbly pray,
    Be Thou my Guard and Guide;
    My sins forgive,
    And let me live,
    Blest Jesus, near Thy side.

    Oh make Thy rest
    Within my breast,
    Great Spirit of all Grace;
    Make me like Thee,
    Then shall I be
    Prepared to see Thy face.

  3. The Lord's Prayer

    by Anonymous

    Our Father in heaven,
    We hallow thy name;
    May thy kingdom holy
    On earth be the same;
    Oh, give to us daily
    Our portion of bread;
    It is from thy bounty,
    That all must be fed.

    Forgive our transgressions.
    And teach us to know
    The humble compassion
    That pardons each foe;
    Keep us from temptation,
    From weakness and sin,
    And thine be the glory
    Forever! Amen!

  4. An Evening Prayer

    by Bernard Barton

    Before I close my eyes in sleep,
    Lord, hear my evening prayer,
    And deign a helpless child to keep,
    With thy protecting care.

    Though young in years, I have been taught
    Thy name to love and fear;
    Of thee to think with solemn thought;
    Thy goodness to revere.

    That goodness gives each simple flower
    Its scent and beauty, too;
    And feeds it in night's darkest hour
    With heaven's refreshing dew.

    The little birds that sing all day
    In many a leafy wood,
    By thee are clothed in plumage gay,
    By thee supplied with food.

    And when at night they cese to sing,
    By thee protected still,
    Their young ones sleep beneath their wing,
    Secure from every ill.

    Thus may'st thou guard with gracious arm
    The bed whereon I lie,
    And keep a child from every harm
    By thine own watchful eye.

  5. The Hour of Prayer

    Felicia Dorothea Hemans (b. 1794, d. 1835) was born in Liverpool, England. Her maiden name was Browne. Her childhood was spent in Wales. Her first volume of poems was published in 1808; her second in 1812. In 1812 she was married to Captain Hemans, but he left her about six years after their marriage, and they never again lived together. She went, with her five sons, to reside with her mother, then living near St. Asaph, in North Wales. Mrs. Hemans then resumed her literary pursuits, and wrote much and well. Her poetry is smooth and graceful, and she excels in description. Many of her poems are exceedingly beautiful.

    Child, amid the flowers at play,
    While the red light fades away;
    Mother, with thine earnest eye,
    Ever following silently;
    Father, by the breeze at eve
    Called thy harvest work to leave;
    Pray! Ere yet the dark hours be,
    Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

    Traveler, in the stranger's land,
    Far from thine own household band;
    Mourner, haunted by the tone
    Of a voice from this world gone;
    Captive, in whose narrow cell
    Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
    Sailor, on the darkening sea;
    Lift the heart and bend the knee.

    Warrior, that from battle won,
    Breathest now at set of sun;
    Woman, o'er the lowly slain
    Weeping on his burial plain;
    Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
    Kindred by one holy tie,
    Heaven's first star alike ye see;
    Lift the heart, and bend the knee.

  6. Minot's Ledge

    Fitz-James O'Brien (b. 1828, d. 1862) was of Irish birth, and came to America in 1852. He has contributed a number of tales and poems to various periodicals, but his writings have never been collected in book form. Mr. O'Brien belonged to the New York Seventh Regiment, and died at Baltimore of a wound received in a cavalry skirmish. NOTE.—Minot's Ledge (also called the "Cohasset Rocks") is a dangerous reef in Boston Harbor, eight miles southwest of Boston Light. It has a fixed light of its own, sixty-six feet high.

    Like spectral hounds across the sky,
    The white clouds scud before the storm;
    And naked in the howling night
    The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form.
    The waves with slippery fingers clutch
    The massive tower, and climb and fall,
    And, muttering, growl with baffled rage
    Their curses on the sturdy wall.

    Up in the lonely tower he sits,
    The keeper of the crimson light:
    Silent and awe-struck does he hear
    The imprecations of the night.
    The white spray beats against the panes
    Like some wet ghost that down the air
    Is hunted by a troop of fiends,
    And seeks a shelter anywhere.

    He prays aloud, the lonely man,
    For every soul that night at sea,
    But more than all for that brave boy
    Who used to gayly climb his knee,—
    Young Charlie, with his chestnut hair,
    And hazel eyes, and laughing lip.
    "May Heaven look down," the old man cries.
    "Upon my son, and on his ship!"

    While thus with pious heart he prays,
    Far in the distance sounds a boom:
    He pauses; and again there rings
    That sullen thunder through the room.
    A ship upon the shoals to-night!
    She cannot hold for one half hour;
    But clear the ropes and grappling hooks,
    And trust in the Almighty Power!

    On the drenched gallery he stands,
    Striving to pierce the solid night:
    Across the sea the red eye throws
    A steady crimson wake of light;
    And, where it falls upon the waves,
    He sees a human head float by,
    With long drenched curls of chestnut hair,
    And wild but fearless hazel eye.

    Out with the hooks! One mighty fling!
    Adown the wind the long rope curls.
    Oh! will it catch? Ah, dread suspense!
    While the wild ocean wilder whirls.
    A steady pull; it tightens now:
    Oh! his old heart will burst with joy,
    As on the slippery rocks he pulls
    The breathing body of his boy.

    Still sweep the specters through the sky;
    Still scud the clouds before the storm;
    Still naked in the howling night
    The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form.
    Without, the world is wild with rage;
    Unkenneled demons are abroad;
    But with the father and the son
    Within, there is the peace of God.

  7. The Tempest

    By James T. Fields (born 1817, died 1881), who was born at Portsmouth, N. H. He was a poet, and the author, also, of some well known prose works. Of these, his "Yesterdays with Authors" is the most noted.

    We were crowded in the cabin;
    Not a soul would dare to sleep:
    It was midnight on the waters,
    And a storm was on the deep.

    'T is a fearful thing in winter
    To be shattered by the blast,
    And to hear the rattling trumpet
    Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

    So we shuddered there in silence,
    For the stoutest held his breath,
    While the hungry sea was roaring,
    And the breakers threatened death.

    And as thus we sat in darkness,
    Each one busy in his prayers,
    "We are lost!" the captain shouted,
    As he staggered down the stairs.

    But his little daughter whispered,
    As she took his icy hand,
    "Is n't God upon the ocean,
    Just the same as on the land?"

    Then we kissed the little maiden,
    And we spoke in better cheer;
    And we anchored safe in harbor
    When the morn was shining clear.

  8. A Child's Hymn

    by F. C. Woodworth

    God make my life a little light,
    Within the world to glow;
    A little flame that burneth bright
    Wherever I may go.

    God make my life a little flower,
    That giveth joy to all,
    Content to bloom in native bower,
    Although its place be small.

    God make my life a little song,
    That comforteth the sad;
    That helpeth others to be strong,
    And makes the singer glad.

    God make my life a little hymn
    Of tenderness and praise;
    Of faith—that never waxeth dim
    In all His wondrous ways.

  9. Prayer

    by Emily Dickinson

    Prayer is the little implement
    Through which men reach
    Where presence is denied them.
    They fling their speech

    By means of it in God's ear;
    If then He hear,
    This sums the apparatus
    Comprised in prayer.

  10. My Quiet Hours

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Evening and morning and at noon will I pray. Ps 55:17

    At evening, the labor done,
    The frets departed with the sun,
    The long night reaching out before,
    I find in prayer an open door,
    And entering where none intrude,
    Rejoice in God's kind solitude.

    At morning, in the eager gray
    Aquiver with the coming day,
    Strong from the bath of calm repose
    To toil with friends or fight with foes,
    I pause upon the threshold there,
    And win a Helper with a prayer.

    At noon, amid the jostling crowd,
    The snarling clamor shrill and loud,
    Within the throng I find again
    That spot undesecrate of men,
    And on the ground by thousands trod
    Am blessedly alone with God!

  11. Pray!

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Pray! for earth has many a need.
    Pray! for prayer is vital deed.
    Pray! for God in heaven hears.
    Pray! for prayer will move the spheres.
    Pray! for praying leads to peace.
    Pray! for praying gives release.
    Pray! for prayer is never lost.
    Pray! for prayer well pays its cost.
    Pray! for prayer is always power.
    Pray! for every prayer's a flower.
    Pray! for prayer the Saviour finds.
    Pray! for prayer creation binds.
    Pray! for every prayer is gold.
    Pray! for prayer is joy untold.
    Pray! for praying frees from care.
    Pray! for Jesus joins your prayer.

  12. Too Tired to Pray

    by Anonymous

    Too tired to pray! O Father, tired of toiling,
    Tired of the heavy load, the blistering way,
    Weary of all the monotone of moiling,
    Tired out--too tired to pray.

    Too sad to pray! undone, my God, with trouble,
    The same dull heartache borne another day,
    My life an empty field of worthless rubble,
    And I--too sad to pray.

    Too sinful--yes, for any further praying,
    Too proud to hear, too wicked to obey,
    Loathing the desert path, yet ever straying,
    And gone too far to pray.

    O Christ, pray for me! Weary, sad, in silence,
    My impotence at Thy dear feet I lay.
    Jesus, my final Help, my All-reliance.
    Pray--for I cannot pray!

  13. Prayer For The President

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Lay Thou, O God, Thy quickening hand
    Upon the ruler of our land.

    Uphold his frame with sturdy might,
    Flush on his hruin revealing light.

    Far may he move from party strife,
    But closer to the people's life.

    Touch Thou his soul with tenderness
    To heed the farthest faint distress.

    Embolden Thou his manly heart
    Ever to play the patriot's part.

    All men may he as brethren own,
    Yet dare at need to stand alone.

    As he is true to us, may we
    Uphold him ever loyally.

    As he is true to Thee, O God,
    Protect him with Thy staff and rod.

    Save him from coward hand and tongue,
    Renew his soul, and keep him young.

    And when his task is ended, then
    Bestow Thy crowning praise. Amen.

  14. At least to pray is left, is left

    by Emily Dickinson

    At least to pray is left, is left.
    O Jesus! in the air
    I know not which thy chamber is, —
    I'm knocking everywhere.

    Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
    And maelstrom in the sea;
    Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
    Hast thou no arm for me?

  15. My Prayer

    by Amos Russel Wells

    I do not, ask my God, for mystic power
    To heal the sick and lame, the deaf and blind;
    I ask Thee humbly for the gracious dower
    Just to be kind.

    I do not pray to see the shining beauty
    Of highest knowledge most divinely true;
    I pray that, knowing well my simple duty,
    This I may do.

    I do not ask that men with flattering finger
    Should point me out within the crowded mart,
    But only that the thought of me may linger
    In one glad heart.

    I would not rise upon the men below me,
    Or pulling at the robes of men above;
    I would that friends, a few dear friends, may know me,
    And, knowing, love.

    I do not pray for palaces of splendor.
    Or far amid the world's delights to roam;
    I pray that I may know the meaning tender
    Of home, sweet home.

    I do not ask that heaven's golden treasure
    Upon my little, blundering life be spent;
    But oh, I ask Thee for the perfect pleasure
    Of calm content.

  16. Mothers—And Others

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Others weary of the noise,
    Mothers play with girls and boys.

    Others scold because we fell,
    Mothers "kiss and make it well."

    Others work with patient will,
    Mothers labor later still.

    Others' love is more or less,
    Mothers love with steadiness.

    Others pardon, hating yet;
    Mothers pardon and forget.

    Others keep the ancient score,
    Mothers never shut the door.

    Others grow incredulous,
    Mothers still believe in us.

    Others throw their faith away,
    Mothers pray. and pray, and pray.

  17. A Child's Prayer at Evening

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Father, who keepest
    The stars in Thy care,
    Me, too, Thy little one,
    Childish in prayer,
    Keep, as Thou keepest
    The soft night through,
    Thy long, white lilies
    Asleep in Thy dew.

    If love and friendship e'er is found,
    'Tis in a father's breast;
    His fond paternal prayers abound,
    And his devotion's blest.

    – Eliza Wolcott
    The Affectionate Father
  18. Invitation

    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    Hasten then, from worldly cares,
    Hasten from these growing tares,
    Hasten to your God in prayer,
    Leave to Him your every care.

    Days and years He still protects thee,
    Tendering you his proffer'd grace;
    Own us, dear Lord; we bow the knee,
    And all thy goodness love to trace.

    'Tis wondrous to behold such kindness
    Patient, listening to our cries;—
    Taking off our moral blindness,—
    Knowing all our inmost sighs.

    Blessed Lord, we now surrender
    All we have to thine own will;
    Let us prize these notions tender,—
    Lord, own us for thy children still.

    The soul with innocence possess'd,
    Her incense safe may bear
    To Christ, whose righteousness hath bless'd
    The humblest form of prayer.

    Thus while the roses greet our eyes,
    In all their rich perfume,
    Should our prayers like incense rise,
    Our summer to illume.

    – Eliza Wolcott
    The Approach Of June, Or The Month Of Roses
  19. A New Leaf

    by Carrie Shaw Rice

    He came to my desk with, quivering lip—
    The lesson was done.
    "Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said,
    "I have spoiled this one."
    I took the old leaf, stained and blotted,
    And gave him a new one all unspotted,
    And into his sad eyes smiled,
    "Do better, now, my child."

    I went to the throne with a quivering soul—
    The old year was done.
    "Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me?
    I have spoiled this one."
    He took the old leaf, stained and blotted,
    And gave me a new one all unspotted,
    And into my sad heart smiled,
    "Do better, now, my child."

  20. A Prayer for a Little Home

    by London "Spectator."

    God send us a little home
    To come back to when we roam—
    Low walls and fluted tiles,
    Wide windows, a view for miles;
    Red firelight and deep chairs;
    Small white beds upstairs;
    Great talk in little nooks;
    Dim colors, rows of books;
    One picture on each wall;
    Not many things at all.
    God send us a little ground—
    Tall trees standing round,
    Homely flowers in brown sod,
    Overhead, Thy stars, O God!
    God bless, when winds blow,
    Our home and all we know.

    Father, perfect my trust;
    Strengthen the might of my faith;
    Let me feel as I would when I stand
    On the rock of the shore of death,—

    Feel as I would when my feet
    Are slipping o'er the brink;
    For it may be I am nearer home,
    Nearer now than I think.

    – Phoebe Cary
    Nearer Home
  21. The Fool's Prayer

    by Edward R. Sill

    The royal feast was done; the King
    Sought some new sport to banish care,
    And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
    Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

    The jester doffed his cap and bells,
    And stood the mocking court before;
    They could not see the bitter smile
    Behind the painted grin he wore.

    He bowed his head, and bent his knee
    Upon the Monarch's silken stool;
    His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!

    "No pity, Lord, could change the heart
    From red with wrong to white as wool;
    The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!

    "'T is not by guilt the onward sweep
    Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
    'T is by our follies that so long
    We hold the earth from heaven away.

    "These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
    Go crushing blossoms without end;
    These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
    Among the heart-strings of a friend.

    "The ill-timed truth we might have kept—
    Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
    The word we had not sense to say—
    Who knows how grandly it had rung!

    "Our faults no tenderness should ask.
    The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
    But for our blunders — oh, in shame
    Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

    "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
    Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
    That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!"

    The room was hushed; in silence rose
    The King, and sought his gardens cool,
    And walked apart, and murmured low,
    "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

    13"But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.' 14"I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

    – Luke 18:13-14
    The Bible, NIV
  22. A Thankful Heart

    by Robert Herrick

    Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
    Wherein to dwell;
    A little house, whose humble roof
    Is weather proof;
    Under the spars of which I lie
    Both soft and dry;
    Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
    Hast set a guard
    Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
    Me, while I sleep.

    Low is my porch, as is my fate;
    Both void of state;
    And yet the threshold of my door
    Is worn by th’ poor,
    Who thither come, and freely get
    Good words, or meat.
    Like as my parlour, so my hall
    And kitchen’s small;
    A little buttery, and therein
    A little bin,
    Which keeps my little loaf of bread
    Unchipt, unflead;
    Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
    Make me a fire,
    Close by whose living coal I sit,
    And glow like it.
    Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
    The pulse is thine,
    And all those other bits that be
    There placed by thee;
    The worts, the purslain, and the mess
    Of water-cress,
    Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
    And my content
    Makes those, and my belovèd beet,
    To be more sweet.
    ’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
    With guiltless mirth,
    And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,
    Spiced to the brink.
    Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
    That soils my land,
    And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,
    Twice ten for one;
    Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
    Her egg each day;
    Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
    Me twins each year;
    The while the conduits of my kine
    Run cream, for wine:
    All these, and better, thou dost send
    Me, to this end,—
    That I should render, for my part,
    A thankful heart;
    Which, fired with incense, I resign,
    As wholly thine;
    —But the acceptance, that must be,
    My Christ, by Thee.

  23. Kneeling With Herrick

    by James Whitcomb Riley

    Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent.—
    Give me content—
    Full-pleasured with what comes to me,
    What e'er it be:
    An humble roof—a frugal board,
    And simple hoard;
    The wintry fagot piled beside
    The chimney wide,

    While the enwreathing flames up-sprout
    And twine about
    The brazen dogs that guard my hearth
    And household worth:
    Tinge with the ember's ruddy glow
    The rafters low;
    And let the sparks snap with delight,
    As ringers might
    That mark deft measures of some tune
    The children croon:
    Then, with good friends, the rarest few
    Thou holdest true,
    Ranged round about the blaze, to share
    My comfort there,—
    Give me to claim the service meet
    That makes each seat
    A place of honor, and each guest
    Loved as the rest.

  24. Morning Windows

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The brightest thing a house can do,
    When morning fills the skies,
    Is just to catch the sun's first rays,
    And flash the brilliant prize.

    No eighty-candle lights within
    Can match the dazzling sight,
    And every window-pane becomes
    A fusillade of light!

    Thus, thus it is when households kneel
    In humble morning prayer.
    The very Sun of Righteousness
    Is caught and captured there:

    And all the day, in all its ways,
    However dull they be,
    The happy windows of that home
    Are scintillant to see!

  25. A Mother's Prayer

    by Anonymous

    Oh give me patience when wee hands
    Tug at me with their small demands.
    And give me gentle and smiling eyes.
    Keep my lips from hasty replies.

    And let not weariness, confusion, or noise
    Obscure my vision of life's fleeting joys.
    So when, in years to come my house is still—
    No bitter memories its room may fill.

  26. A Mother's Prayer

    by Anonymous

    Dear Lord, It’s such a hectic day,
    With little time to stop and pray,
    For Life’s been anything but calm,
    Since You called me to be a Mom,

    Running errands, matching socks,
    Building dreams with matching blocks,
    Cooking, cleaning, finding shoes,
    And other stuff that children lose,

    Fitting lids on bottled bugs,
    Wiping tears and giving hugs,
    A stack of last week’s mail to read,
    So where’s the quiet time I need?

    Yet, when I steal a moment, Lord,
    Just at the sink or ironing board,
    To ask the blessings of Your grace,
    I see them, in my small one’s face,

    That you have blessed me
    All the while —
    And I stoop to kiss
    That precious smile.

  27. A Mother's prayer

    by Anonymous

    The things I never told you I'd like to tell you now;
    Of feelings held contentedly inside my heart to swell;
    Of thoughts and dreams, wants and happiness too;
    A Mother's prayer to finally share with you.
    Lord, govern their lives as you have mine,
    Touch them with Your sweet divine,
    Make them happy, guide their paths,
    Tickle their funny bones, let me hear their laughs.

    Dry the tears sliding down their faces,
    Hold their hands when the love heart races,
    Make them stand tall when the burdens are great,
    Prepare them to carry the loads of fate.
    Heal the hurts and sufferings of the spirit,
    Make them listen until they hear it;
    That sweet song of yours that will touch their soul
    And carry them forward until they are old.
    Lord, let them see the meaning of life,
    Protect them from the evils of strife,
    Gently guide them in the path of your ways,
    I pray, Lord, I pray for them everyday.
    I know, Lord, that I fell short many times;
    In my guidance as "Mom" there were crimes,
    Times that I failed to help them see
    The beauty that you have bestowed around me.
    Take their hands and lead them forward
    Give them strength to avoid the coward
    And evil ones that lurk about
    Waiting` to swallow them up and shout
    The conquest of their gentle soul
    Provide them the coin to pass the toll.
    Please make things right, Lord, once again
    To help them to see the meaning of friend
    And loved ones that hold them close to the heart
    With a Mother that loves them, never apart.

  28. Chain Prayers

    by Amos Russel Wells

    As our faith burns brighter, longer,
    When a friend's true faith is near,
    So our uttered prayer grows stronger
    When an added prayer we hear.

    Links of grateful adoration,
    Links of promise, true and plain.
    Links of eager supplication,—
    Lengthen out the glorious chain!

    "Least that's said, the soonest mended,"—
    So the fretful worldlings call;
    "Iron chains, too far extended,
    Break beneath their weight, and fall,"

    Add the links, and do not heed them!
    With each link the weight is less.
    Winged are all true prayers, and speed them
    Upward to God's tenderness.

    Lengthen out the long petition!—
    Words that tremble, words that shrink,
    Praises, sorrows, joy, contrition;—
    For a chain needs every link.

  29. A Cowboy's Prayer

    by Charles Badger Clark

    Oh Lord. I've never lived where churches grow.
    I love creation better as it stood
    That day You finished it so long ago
    And looked upon Your work and called it good.
    I know that others find You in the light
    That's sifted down through tinted window panes,
    And yet I seem to feel You near tonight
    In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.

    I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,
    That You have made my freedom so complete;
    That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell,
    Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street.
    Just let me live my life as I've begun
    And give me work that's open to the sky;
    Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,
    And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.

    Let me be easy on the man that's down;
    Let me be square and generous with all.
    I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town,
    But never let 'em say I'm mean or small!
    Make me as big and open as the plains,
    As honest as the hawse between my knees,
    Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,
    Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze!

    Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget.
    You know about the reasons that are hid.
    You understand the things that gall and fret;
    You know me better than my mother did.
    Just keep an eye on all that's done and said
    And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside,
    And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead
    That stretches upward toward the Great Divide.

  30. The Prayer Meeting

    by Anonymous

    We meet—one another, and friendship expands
    As eye catches eye, and as hands welcome hands.
    The touch of good fellowship thrills to the soul,
    And each is inspired by the zeal of the whole.

    We meet—the dear Saviour, unseen and unheard;
    We leap to the vision, we feed on the word;
    His presence, so loving, so wise, and so strong,
    Is felt in each moment of prayer or of song.

    We meet—our ideals; exulting we see
    The grace that our living might blessedly be.
    We burn with the joy of that promised delight,
    And spring to achieve it in heaven-born might.

    So meeting, we practise the life of true men;
    So parting, we part but to gather again;
    Till soon—how the spirit awaits it and yearns!—
    We shall meet in the meeting that never adjourns.

  31. The Prayer on Bunker's Hill

    by Lydia Sigourney. During the battle of Bunker's Hill, a venerable clergyman of Massachusetts, knelt on the field, with hands upraised, and grey head uncovered, and while the bullets whistled around him, prayed for the success of his people.

    It was an hour of fear and dread,
    High rose the battle cry,
    And round in heavy volumes spread
    The war-cloud to the sky.

    'Twas not, as when in rival strength,
    Contending nations meet,
    Or love of conquest madly hurls
    A monarch from his seat.

    But many a warm cemented tie,
    Was riven in anguish wild,
    Ere with a foe-man's vengeful eye
    The parent met the child.

    O'er the green hill's beleagur'd breast,
    Swept on the conflict high,
    And many a gallant leader prest
    The trampled turf to die.

    Yet one was there unus'd to tread,
    The path of mortal strife,
    Who but the Saviour's flock had led
    Beside the fount of life.

    He knelt him where the black smoke wreath'd
    His head was bow'd and bare,
    While for an infant land, he breath'd
    The agony of prayer.

    The shafts of death flew thick and fast,
    'Mid shrieks of ire and pain,
    Wide wav'd his white locks on the blast,
    And round him fell the slain.

    Yet still with fervency intense
    He prest the endanger'd spot,
    The selfish thought, the shrinking sense
    O'ermaster'd, and forgot.

    'Twould seem as if a marble form
    Wrought in some quarried height,
    Stood fix'd amid thai battle storm,
    Save that the eye was bright.

    Save that the deeply-heaving breast,
    The hand uprais'd in air,
    The smile, yet moving lips, exprest
    That strong life wrestled there.

    Then loud upon their native soil,
    Peal'd forth their victor's cry,
    And thinn'd beneath the desperate toil,
    The wearied host swept by.

    But 'mid that strange and fierce delight,
    A chief of other days.
    Gave up your falchions broad and bright,
    Your own light arms the praise.

    Or thought ye still how many a prayer,
    Amid the deathful fray,
    From cottage homes, and heads of care,
    Rose up for you that day?

    The column red with early morn,
    May tower o'er Bunker's height,
    And proudly till a race unborn
    Their patriot father's might.

    But thou, Oh patriot, old and grey,
    Thou prophet of the free,
    Who knelt amid the dead, that day,
    What fame shall rise to thee?

    It is not meet that brass or stone,
    Which feel the touch of time,
    Should keep the record of a faith
    That woke thy deed sublime.

    We trace it on a tablet fair
    Which glows when stars wax pale,
    A promise that the good man's prayer
    Shall with his God prevail.

  32. Now the Day is Over

    by Sabine Baring-Gould

    Now the day is over,
    Night is drawing nigh,
    Shadows of the evening
    Steal across the sky.

    Now the darkness gathers,
    Stars begin to peep;
    Birds, and beasts, and flowers
    Soon will be asleep.

    Jesus, give the weary
    Calm and sweet repose;
    With thy tenderest blessing
    May our eyelids close.

    Grant to little children,
    Visions bright of Thee;
    Guard the sailors, tossing
    On the deep blue sea.

    Comfort every suff’rer
    Watching late in pain.
    Those who plan some evil
    From their sin restrain.

    Through the long night-watches,
    May thine angels spread
    Their white wings above me,
    Watching round my bed.

    When the morning wakens,
    Then may I arise
    Pure, and fresh, and sinless
    In Thy holy eyes.

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