Strength of my heart, I need not fail, Not mind to fear but to obey, With such a Leader, who could quail? Thou art as Thou wert yesterday. Strength of my heart, I rest in Thee, Fulfil Thy purposes through me.
If I slip into the place that can be filled by Christ alone, making myself the first necessity to a soul instead of leading it to fasten upon Him, then I know nothing of Calvary love.
It is not the place where we are, or the work that we do or cannot do that matters, it is something else. It is the fire within that burns and shines, whatever be our circumstances.
One must as willingly be nothing, as something.
If monotony tries me, and I cannot stand drudgery; if stupid people fret me and little ruffles set me on edge; if I make much of the trifles of life, then I know nothing of Calvary love.
If I find myself half-carelessly taking lapses for granted, “Oh, that’s what they always do.” “Oh, of course she talks like that, he acts like that,” then I know nothing of Calvary love.
The only expenditure, and all its outworkings, for which God can be held to be responsible is that which He directs.
God, harden me against myself!
O Love of God, do this for me: Maintain a constant victory.
Oh, will you pray? Stop now and pray, lest desire turn to feeling and feeling evaporate.
Ours should be the love that asks not ‘how little?’ but, ‘how much?’ The love that delights to pour out everything upon the feet of our Beloved.
The mere telling of how a need was met is often like telling of a need, which is asking crookedly instead of straight out. But this much I will say – with every fresh need has come a fresh supply.
If Thy dear home be fuller, Lord, For that a little emptier. My house on earth, what rich rewards. That guerdon were.
There are many rooms in the House of Pain.
The best training is to learn to accept everything as it comes, as from Him whom our soul loves. The tests are always unexpected things, not great things that can be written up, but the common little rubs of life, silly little nothings, things you are ashamed of minding one scrap.
If I am content to heal a hurt slightly, saying “Peace, peace,” where is no peace; if I forget the poignant word “Let love be without dissimulation” and blunt the edge of truth, speaking not right things but smooth things, then I know nothing of Calvary love.
I wish thy way. And when in me myself should rise, and long for something otherwise, Then Lord, take sword and spear And slay.
I believe truly that Satan cannot endure it and so slips out of the room – more or less – when there is a true song.
If I put my own good name before the other’s highest good, then I know nothing of Calvary’s love.
I don’t wonder apostolic miracles have died. Apostolic living certainly has.