Let your soul be smoothed and softened, as the dew revives the rose.

A moment in the morning take your Bible in your hand,
And catch a glimpse of glory from the peaceful promised land:
It will linger still before you when you seek the busy mart,
And like flowers of hope will blossom into beauty in your heart.
The precious words, like jewels, will glisten all the day
With a rare effulgent glory that will brighten all the way;
When comes a sore temptation, and your feet are near a snare,
You may count them like a rosary and make each one a prayer.

A moment in the morning--a moment, if no more--
Is better than an hour when the trying day is o'er.
'Tis the gentle dew from heaven, the manna for the day;
If you fail to gather early--alas! it melts away.
So, in the blush of morning, take the offered hand of love,
And walk in heaven's pathway and the peacefulness thereof.

--Arthur Lewis Tubbs.

AN INVITATION TO PRAYER

Come to the morning prayer,
Come, let us kneel and pray;
Prayer is the Christian pilgrim's staff
To walk with God all day.

At noon, beneath the Rock
Of Ages rest and pray;
Sweet is the shadow from the heat
When the sun smites by day.

At eve, shut to the door,
Round the home altar pray;
And finding there "the house of God"
At "heaven's gate" close the day.

When midnight seals our eyes,
Let each in spirit say,
"I sleep, but my heart waketh, Lord,
With thee to watch and pray."

--James Montgomery.

SELFISH PRAYER

How we, poor players on life's little stage,
Thrust blindly at each other in our rage,
Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to pray
To God to keep us on our selfish way.

We think to move him with our prayer and praise
To serve our needs, as in the old Greek days
Their gods came down and mingled in the fight
With mightier arms the flying foe to smite.

The laughter of those gods pealed down to man;
For heaven was but earth's upper story then,
Where goddesses about an apple strove
And the high gods fell humanly in love.

_We_ own a God whose presence fills the sky;
Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by;
Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one,
The sons of man, and calls them each his son.

--Louise Chandler Moulton.

To make rough places plai