“FANNY dear, pray to God to prepare you for all He is preparing for you,” said the dying mother to her little girl in pleading, solemn tones.
   Frances Ridley Havergal was about eleven years of age when these words were spoken to her, but she would not believe that her beloved mother was dying.  As she says in her autobiography, she shut her eyes in a very hardened way to those who tried to prepare her for it.  Mrs. Havergal was quite aware of this, and strove to lead her child to trust and love the Saviour that she might have comfort when the heavy blow should fall.
   “You are my youngest little girl, and I feel more anxious about you than the rest.  I do pray for the Holy Spirit to lead and guide you.  And remember nothing but the precious blood of Christ can make you clean and lovely in God’s sight.”
   But little Frances put it off, saying:
   “Oh, mamma, I’m sure you will get well again” and not even the mother’s solemn, glad affirmation that she would soon see her Saviour face to face could penetrate those wilfully closed little ears.
   When the end had really come, the child, highly strung and highly imaginative, hoped, until almost the very day of the funeral that her mother was only in a trance.  She had heard of people supposed to be dead who had recovered, and so, again and again she tiptoed into that room and stood looking upon the lovely face, half expecting the eyes to unclose and smile at her.
   Poor child!  they did not do so, and it was a grief-stricken little Frances who, on that sad day, peeped through a tiny space between blind and window to watch the funeral procession pass through the Rectory gates into the church.
   Mrs. Havergal died on 5th July, 1848, and that day little Frances wrote:

          “Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
             Neither can man’s heart conceive,
           The blessed things God hath prepared
              For those who love Him and believe.”

And again, on 9th July:

            “Oh!  had I the wings of a dove,
               Soon, soon would I be at my rest;
            I would fly to the Saviour I love
               And there would I lie on His breast.”

   These verses show how clear her head knowledge of the truths, but her heart was as yet unreached.  Her grief over her mother’s death was very great, but not always evident.  Her lively disposition enabled her to put it away and engage for the moment, intensely, on whatever she had on hand.  She writes:  “And thus it happened that a merry laugh or a sudden light-heeled scamper upstairs and downstairs led others to think I had not many sad thoughts, whereas not a minute before my little heart was heavy and sad.”
   Up to the age of six years, she said, she had not any thoughts or ideas on religion, but after that time she began to long (to use her own words) ”to be a Christian,” “to be made a Christian.”  And yet, as we have seen, how resisting even that dear, dying mother who, even when Frances was only four had tenderly taught her about the Lord Jesus. . .
    But during all her strivings after peace, and during the days when she did trouble at all, little Frances always knew the sinfulness of her heart.
   When she was about thirteen she went to school at Belmont, where Mrs. Teed, a godly, loving woman, whose heart was yearning to lead her girls to the Saviour, was concluding her long course of school work.
   One little schoolfellow, so gentle and so consistently good that all her companions fancied that she was already a Christian, found the Saviour at this time and the joy unspeakable and full of glory which radiated from her in consequence filled Frances with awe.  She never, never forgot how this loving girl tried to lead her to the same course of bliss that she, too, might know her sins forgiven.
   But it was not till two months or so later, February, 1851, that she really trusted her soul to the Lord Jesus Christ.  She was visiting at Oakhampton, the home of her sister Miriam, Mrs. Henry Crane.  Miss Cooke, who afterwards married Frances’ father, was there too, and this true child of God spoke the words which brought Frances to the point of trusting.
   ”Why cannot you trust yourself to the Saviour at once?” she asked.  “If Jesus should come now to take up His redeemed could you not trust Him?  Would not His call, His promise be enough for you?  Could you not commit your soul to Him, to your Saviour, Jesus?”  “I could, surely,” the little girl replied, and filled with a hope which made her literally breathless, she went upstairs, and though there was still a slight admixture of fear, she committed her soul to the Saviour–she did trust the Lord Jesus at last.  Her whole real happiness from that time lay in pleasing and serving Him.
   Yes, her soul was saved, she had committed it to Him, and she knew that He was able to keep it against that day.

“Why will you do without Him?
   The Word of God is true,
The world is passing to its doom–
   And you are passing too.
It may be no to-morrow
   Shall dawn on you or me;
Why will you run the awful risk
   Of all Eternity?

“He would not do without you!
   He calls and calls again–
‘Come unto Me!  Come unto Me!’
   Oh, shall He call in vain?
He wants to have you with Him;
   Do you not want Him too?
You cannot do without Him,
   And He wants–even you.”

Excerpts from SINGERS OF ZION
Pickering & Inglis
  

IN God’s great field of labour
   All work is not the same;
He hath a service for each one
   Who loves His holy name.
And you, to whom the secrets
   Of all sweet sounds are known,
Rise up!  for He hath called you
   To a mission of your own.
And, rightly to fulfil it,
   His grace can make you strong,
Who to your charge hath given
   The Ministry of Song.

Sing to the little children,
   And they will listen well;
Sing grand and holy music,
   For they can feel its spell,
Tell them the tale of Jephthah;
   Then sing them what he said,–
‘Deeper and deeper still,’ and watch
   How the little cheek grows red,
And the litttle breath comes quicker:
   They will ne’er forget the tale,
Which the song has fastened surely,
   As with a golden nail.

I remember, late one evening,
   How the music stopped, for, hark!
Charlie’s nursery door was open,
   He was calling in the dark,–
‘Oh no!  I am not frightened,
   And I do not want a light;
But I cannot sleep for thinking
   Of the song you sang last night.
Something about a “valley,”
   And “make rough places plain,”
And “Comfort ye;” so beautiful!
   Oh, sing it me again!’

Sing at the cottage bedside;
   They have no music there,
And the voice of praise is silent
   After the voice of prayer.
Sing of the gentle Saviour
   In the simplest hymns you know,
And the pain-dimmed eye will brighten
   As the soothing verses flow.
Better than loudest plaudits
   The murmured thanks of such,
For the King will stoop to crown them
   With His gracious ‘Inasmuch.’

 Sing, when the full-toned organ
    Resounds through aisle and nave,
 And the choral praise ascendeth
    In concord sweet and grave.
 Sing, where the village voices
    Fall harshly on your ear;
 And while more earnestly you join,
    Less discord you will hear.
 The noblest and the humblest
    Alike are ‘common praise,’
 And not for human ear alone
    The psalm and hymn we raise.

Sing in the deepening twilight,
   When the shadow of eve is nigh,
And her purple and golden pinions
   Fold o’er the western sky.
Sing in the silver silence,
   While the first moonbeams fall;
So shall your power be greater
   Over the hearts of all.
Sing till you hear them with you
   Into a holy calm,
And the sacred tones have scattered
   Manna, and myrrh, and balm.

Sing!  that your song may gladden;
   Sing like the happy rills,
Leaping in sparkling blessing
   Fresh from the breezy hills.
Sing!  that your song may silence
   The folly and the just,
And the ‘idle word’ be banished
   As an unwelcome guest.
Sing!  that our song may echo
   After the strain is past,
A link of the love-wrought cable
   That holds some vessel fast.

Sing to the tired and anxious
   It is yours to fling a ray,
Passing indeed, but cheering,
   Across the rugged way.
Sing to God’s holy servants,
   Weary with loving toil,
Spent with their faithful labour
   On oft ungrateful soil.
The chalice of your music
   All reverently bear,
For with the bless`ed angels,
   Such ministry you share.

When you long to bear the Message
   Home to some troubled breast,
Then sing with loving fervour,
   ‘Come unto Him, and rest.’
Or would you whisper comfort,
   Where words bring no relief,
Sing how, ‘He was despis`ed,
   Acquainted with our grief.’
And, aided by His blessing,
   The song may win its way
Where speech had no admittance,
   And change the night to day.

Sing, when His mighty mercies
   And marvellous love you feel,
And the deep joy of gratitude
   Springs freshly as you kneel;
When words, like morning starlight,
   Melt powerless,–rise and sing!
And bring your sweetest music
   To Him, your gracious King.
Pour out your song before Him
   To whom our best is due;
Remember, He who hears your prayer
   Will hear your praises too.

Sing on in grateful gladness!
   Rejoice in this good thing
Which the Lord thy God hath given thee,
   The happy power to sing,
But yield to Him, the Sovereign,
   To whom all gifts belong,
In fullest consecration,
   Your Ministry of Song,
Until His mercy grant you
   That resurrection voice,
Whose only ministry shall be,
   To praise Him and rejoice.

–Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS
 

‘There they dwelt with the king for his work.’

‘THERE!’–Not in any likely place at all, not in the palace, not in ‘the city of the great king,’ but in about the last place one would have expected, ‘among plants and hedges.’  It does not even seem clear why they were ‘there’ at all, for they were potters, not gardeners,–thus giving us the combination of simple labour of our hands, carried on in out-of-the-way places; and yet they were dwellers with the king, and workers with the king.
   The lesson seems twofold,–First, that anywhere and everywhere we too may dwell ‘with the King for His work.’  We may be in a very unlikely or unfavourable place for this,–it may be in a literal country life, with little enough to be seen of the ‘goings’ of the King around us; it may be among hedges of all sorts, hindrances in all directions; it may be, furthermore, with our hands full of all manner of pottery for our daily task.  No matter!  The King who placed us ‘there’ will come and dwell there with us; the hedges are all right, or He would soon do away with them, and it does not follow that what seems to hinder our way may not be for its very protection; and as for the pottery, why, that is just exactly what He has seen fit to put into our hands, and therefore it is, for the present, ‘His work.’
   Secondly, that the dwelling and the working must go together.  If we are indeed dwelling with the King, we shall be working for Him too, ‘as we have opportunity.’  The working will be as the dwelling,–a settled, regular thing, whatever form it may take at His appointment.  Nor will His work ever be done when we are not dwelling with Him.  It will be our own work then, not His, and it will not ‘abide.’  We shall come under the condemnation of the vine which was pronounced ‘empty,’ because ‘he bringeth forth fruit unto himself.’
   We are to dwell with the King ‘for His work;’ but He will see to it that it shall be for a great deal besides,–for a great continual reward according to His own heart and out of His royal bounty,–for peace, for power, for love, for gladness, for likeness to Himself.
   ‘Labourers together with God!’  ‘workers together with Him!’  ‘the Lord working with’ us!  admitted into divine fellowship of work!–will not this thought ennoble everything He gives us to do to-day, even if it is ‘among plants and hedges’!  Even the pottery will be grand!
   ‘Be strong, all ye people of the land, saith the Lord, and work, FOR I am with you, saith the Lord of hosts.’

–Frances Ridley Havergal from MY KING

‘Thy servants are ready to do whatsoever my lord the king shall appoint.’

THIS is the secret of steady and unruffled gladness in ‘the business of the Lord, and the service of the King,’ whether we are ‘over the treasures of the house of God,’ or ‘for the outward business over Israel.’
   It makes all the difference!  If we are really, and always, and equally ready to whatsoever the King appoints, all the trials and vexations arising from any change in His appointments, great or small, simply do not exist.  If He appoints me to work there, shall I lament that I am not to work here?  If He appoints me to wait in-doors today, am I to be annoyed because I am not to work out-of-doors?  If I meant to write His messages this morning, shall I grumble because He sends interrupting visitors, rich or poor, to whom I am to speak them, or ’show kindness’ for His sake, or at least obey His command, ‘Be courteous?’  If all my ‘members’ are really at His disposal, why should I be put out if to-day’s appointment is some simple work for my hands or errands for my feet, instead of some seemingly more important doing of head or tongue?
   Does it seem a merely ideal life?  Try it!  begin at once; before you venture away from this quiet moment, ask your King to take you ‘wholly’ into His service, and place all the hours of this day quite simply at His disposal, and ask Him to make and keep you ready to do just exactly what He appoints.  Never mind about tomorrow; one day at a time is enough.  Try it to-day, and see if it is not a day of strange, almost curious peace, so sweet that you will be only too thankful, when to-morrow comes, to ask Him to take it also,–till it will become a blessed habit to hold yourself simply and ‘wholly at Thy commandment’ ‘for any manner of service.’
   Then will come, too, an indescribable and unexpected sense of freedom, and a total relief from the self-imposed bondage of ‘having to get through’ what we think lies before us.  For ‘of the children of Isarel did Solomon make no bondmen.’
   Then, too, by thus being ready, moment by moment, for whatsoever He shall appoint, we realize very much more that we are not left alone, but for His work.’  Thus the very fact of an otherwise vexatious interruption is transmuted into a precious proof of the nearness of the King.  His interference implies His interest and His presence.
   The ‘whatsoever’ is not necessarily active work.  It may be waiting (whether half an hour or half a lifetime), learning, suffering, sitting still.  But, dear fellow-servants of ‘my Lord the King,’ shall we be less ready for these, if any of them are His appointments for to-day?  ‘Whatsoever the king did pleased all the people.’
   ‘Ready’ implies something of preparation,–not being taken by surprise.  So let us ask Him to prepare us for all that He is preparing for us.  And may ‘the hand of God give’ us ‘one heart to do the commandment of the King!’

     ‘Lord, I have given my life to Thee,
        And every day and hour is Thine;
     What thou appointest let them be;
        Thy will is better, Lord, than mine.’
                                        A. L. Waring

–Frances Ridley Havergal from MY KING

     O NAME of gentlest grace,
     O Name of strength and might,
Meeting the heart-need of our orphaned race
     With tenderest delight!
Our everlasting Father!  This is He
   Who came in deep humility
     A little child to be!

–Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS

          THE ENGLISH CHILD’S REPLY

WE have heard the call from your fair green Isle,
   Our hearts have wept at your saddening tale,
And we long to waken a brighter smile,
   By a story of love which shall never fail.

We should like you to come to our Bible land,
   And share our comforts and blessings too;
We would take you all with a sister’s hand,
   And try to teach and to gladden you.

  But you’re so far off that it cannot be,
     And we have no wings, or to you we’d fly,
  So we’ll try to send o’er the foaming sea
     Sweet words to brighten each heavy eye.

  Sweet words of Him who was once so poor
     That He had not where to lay His head;
  But hath opened now the gleaming door
     To the palace of light, where His feast is
  spread.

There you may enter; He calls each one,
   You’re as welcome there as the greatest king;
Come to Him then, for He casts out none,
   And nothing at all do you need to bring.

He will change your rags for a robe of white,
   An angel harp, and a crown of gold;
You may dwell for aye in His presence bright,
   And the beaming smiles of His love behold.

We will gladly save from our little store
   Our pennies, our farthings, from day to day,
And only wish we could do far more;
   But for Erin’s children we’ll always pray.

1856

–Frances Ridley Havergal from BEN BRIGHTBOOTS

          THE IRISH CHILD’S CRY

OH, children of England beyond the blue sea,
Your poor little brothers and sisters are we;
‘Tis not much affection or pity we find,
But we hear you are loving and gentle and kind;
So will you not listen a minute or two,
While we tell you a tale that is all of it true?

We live in a cabin, dark, smoky and poor;
At night we lie down on the hard dirty floor;
Our clothes are oft tattered, and shoes we have none;
Our food we must beg, as we always have done;
So cold, and so hungry, and wretched are we,
It would make you quite sad if you only could see.

There’s no one to teach us poor children to read;
There’s no one to help us, and no one to lead;
There’s no one at all that will tell us the way
To be happy or safe, or teach us to pray;
To the bright place above us we all want to go,
But we cannot for how to get there we don’t know.

They tell us the Virgin will hear if we call,
But sure in one minute she can’t hear us all.
And the saints are too busy in heaven we hear;
Then often the priests make us tremble with fear
At the fire of purgatory, which, as they tell,
Is almost as dreadful as going to hell.

Oh, will you not help us, and send us a ray
Of the light of the gospel, to brighten our way?
Oh, will you not tell us the beautiful story
Of Jesus, who came from His dwelling of glory
To save little children, and not only you,
But even the poor ragged Irish ones too?

–Frances Ridley Havergal from BEN BRIGHTBOOTS

   BUDS and bells!  Sweet April pleasures,
      Springing all around,
   White and gold and crimson treasures,
      From the cold, unlovely ground!
   He who gave them grace and hue
      Made the little children too!

   When the weary little flowers
      Close their starry eyes,
   By the dark and dewy hours
      Strength and freshness God supplies.
   He who sends the gentle dew
                                     Cares for little children too!

Then He gives the pleasant weather,
   Sunshine warm and free,
Making all things glad together,
   Kind to them and kind to me.
Lovely flowers!  He loveth you,
   And the little chldren too!

Though we cannot hear you singing
   Softly chiming lays,
Surely God can see you bringing
   Silent songs of wordless praise!
Hears your anthem, sweet and true,
   Hears the little children too!

–Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS

O THE compensating springs!  O the balance-wheels of
     life,
Hidden away in the workings under the seeming strife!
Slowing the fret and the friction, weighting the whirl and
     the force,
Evolving the truest power from each unconscious source.

How shall we guage the whole, who can only guess a part?
How can we read the life, when we cannot spell the heart?
How shall we measure another, we who can never know
From the juttings above the surface the depth of the vein
     below?

Even our present way is known to ourselves alone,
Height and abyss and torrent, flower and thorn and stone;
But we gaze on another’s path as a far-off mountain scene,
Scanning the outlined hills, but never the vales between.

How shall we judge their present, we who have never seen
That which is past for ever, and that which might have
     been?
Measuring by ourselves, unwise indeed are we,
Measuring what we know by what we can hardly see.

Ah!  if we knew it all, we should surely understand
That the balance of sorrow and joy is held with an even
     hand,
That the scale of success or loss shall never overflow,
And that compensation is twined with the lot of high and
     low.

The easy path in the lowland hath little of grand or new,
But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious
     view;
Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the
     height,
But the peak that is nearer the storm-cloud is nearer the
     stars of light.

Launch on the foaming stream that bears you along like a
     dart,–
There is danger of rapid and rock, there is tension of
     muscle and heart;
Glide on the easy current, monotonous, calm, and slow,
You are spared the quiver and strain in the safe and quiet
     flow.

O the sweetness that dwells in a harp of many strings,
While each, all vocal with love, in tuneful harmony rings!
But O, the wail and the discord, when one and another is
     rent
Tensionless, broken, or lost, from the cherished instrument.

For rapture of love is linked with the pain or fear of loss,
And the hand that takes the crown must ache with many
     a cross;
Yet he who hath never a conflict hath never a victor’s
     palm,
And only the toilers know the sweetness of rest and calm.

Only between the storms can the Alpine traveller know
Transcendent glory of clearness, marvels of gleam and
     glow;
Had he the brightness unbroken of cloudless summer
     days,
This had been dimmed by the dust and the veil of a
     brooding haze.

Who would dare the choice, neither or both to know,
The finest quiver of joy or the agony-thrill of woe?
Never the exquisite pain, then never the exquisite bliss,
For the heart that is dull to that can never be strung to this.

Great is the peril or toil if the glory or gain be great;
Never an earthly gift without responsible weight;
Never a treasure without a following shade of care;
Never a power without the lurk of a subtle snare.

For the swift is not the safe, and the sweet is not the
     strong;
The smooth is not the short, and the keen is not the long;
The much is not the most, and the wide is not the deep;
And the flow is never a spring, when the ebb is only neap.

Then hush! oh, hush! for the Father knows what thou
     knowest not,
The need and the thorn and the shadow linked with the
     fairest lot;
Knows the wisest exemption from many an unseen snare,
Knows what will keep thee nearest, knows what thou
     could’st not bear.

Hush! oh, hush!  for the Father portioneth as He will,
To all His beloved children, and shall they not be still?
Is not His will the wisest, is not His choice the best?
And in perfect acquiescence is there not perfect rest?

Hush!  oh, hush!  for the Father, whose ways are true and
     just,
The cup He is slowly filling shall soon be full to the brim,
And infinite compensations for ever be found in Him.

Hush!  oh, hush!  for the Father hath fulness of joy in store,
Treasures of power and wisdom, and pleasures for ever-
     more;
Blessing and honour and glory, endless, infinite bliss;–
Child of His love and His choice, oh, canst thou not wait
     for this?

–Frances Ridley Havergal from THE POETICAL WORKS

‘Chosen to be a soldier.’–2 Tim. 2.4

ARE you a soldier?  You ought to be, for you have been chosen to be a soldier in the glorious army of Jesus Christ.
   You ought to be, for you have been ‘received into the congregation of Christ’s flock’ at our baptism, and engaged ‘manfully to fight under His banner against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto your life’s end.’  You can never undo that, even if you are a deserter, and found in the enemy’s ranks.  The Captain of our salvation will not undo it, for He is ready to receive you, if you will but come, and enlist now.
   Now, this very morning, come and enlist!  This very morning ask Him to receive you into His noble army and to give you first the shield of His salvation, and then the whole armour of God, and to ‘teach your hands to war and your fingers to fight,’ and to give you victories every day even now, and to let you share his grand triumphs hereafter.
   Perhaps you know that you have enlisted already, you know and love your Captain, and He is enabling you, even if very feebly,yet really, to fight the good fight of faith?  How came you to enlist?  Was it any credit to you?  Oh no!  it was all His doing.  It was He who chose you to be a soldier, not you who chose Him to be a Captain.  And then He sent not some dreadful cannon roar, but the sweet bugle-call of His love, to win you to join His ranks.  And now He fights not only with you, but for you.
   In His war ‘nothing shall by any means hurt you,’ for ‘He was wounded’ for you.  Your life is safe with Him, for He laid down His own for you.  By His side you can never be vanquished, because He goes forth ‘always conquering and to conquer.’

     ‘Stand up, stand up for Jesus!
        Ye soldiers of the cross;
     Lift high His royal banner
        It must not suffer loss.

     From victory to victory
        His army shall be led,
     Till every foe is vanquished,
        And Christ is Lord indeed.

     Stand up, stand up for Jesus!
        The trumpet call obey;
     Forth to the mighty conflict,
        In this His glorious day!’

–Frances Ridley Havergal from MORNING BELLS