God is not unrighteous to forget your work and labour of love, which ye have shewed toward his name, in that ye have ministered to the saints, and do minister— Heb. 6: 10.


No child of the Lord should be content to let the days of the present harvest time go by with their golden opportunities for service and co-operation without seeking each day to lift the royal banner himself, and publicly to show forth the praises of Him who has called him out of darkness into light, or without assisting and co­ operating with others whom the Lord in His providence has placed in more advantageous positions for public service.


*          *          *


The work and labor flowing out of love, which the saints perform for the development and perfection of one another in Christlikeness, should primarily be shown for His name, for the glory of God; and such work and labor of love—marvelous thought!—God owns with appreciation, and thus His justice forbids His forgetting the same.


Parallel passages: Prov. 14: 31; 22: 9; 28: 27; 31: 20; Matt. 10: 40-42; 18: 5, 6; Acts 11: 29; 24: 17; Rom. 12: 13; 15: 25, 26; 2Cor. 8, 9; 1Thes. 1: 3, 6, 7; 2Tim. 1: 18.


Questions: What were this week's experiences as to the text? How were they undergone? What were their results?




THE Feast was spread at Simon's house, and as

they sat at meat,

A woman came and silent stood within the open


Close pressed against her throbbing heart an alabaster


Of purest spikenard, costly, rare, she held. With modest


She dreaded to attract the curious gaze of those


And yet her well-beloved Friend was there, her

Master, Lord.

With wondrous intuition she divined that this might


Her last, her only opportunity to show her love;

She thought of all that He had done for her, the

holy hours

 She spent enraptured at His feet, unmindful of all


If only she might hear those words of Truth, those

words of Life.

She thought of that dark hour when Lazarus lay

within the tomb

And how He turned her night to day, her weeping

into joy.

Her fair face flushed, with deepening gratitude her

pure eyes shone;

With swift, light step she crossed the crowded room.

She bravely met

Those questioning eyes (for Love will find its way

through paths where lions

Fear to tread); with trembling hands she broke the

seal and poured

The precious contents of the box upon her Savior's


And all the house was filled with fragrance wonderful

and sweet.

She could not speak, her heart's devotion was too

deep, her tears

Fell softly, while she took her chiefest ornament, her


And silken hair and wiped His sacred feet,—when


A rude voice broke the golden silence with, "What

waste! this might

Have sold for much, to feed the poor!" She lower

bent her head—

To her it seemed so mean a gift for love so great to


Again a voice re-echoed through the room, her

blessed Lord's,

(He half arose and gently laid His hand upon her


And how it thrilled her fainting heart to hear Him

sweetly say,

"Rebuke her not, for she hath wrought a good work,

what she could;

Aforehand, to anoint Me for my burying, she hath


and this her deed of love throughout the ages shall

be told!"




How oft since first I read the story of this saint of old,

My own poor heart hath burned with fervent, longing,

deep desire,

That I might thus have ministered unto my Lord and


"The chiefest of ten thousand, altogether lovely One."

And now, to learn—oh! precious thought, 'tis not

too late, I still

May pour Love's priceless ointment on "the members"

of His Feet!

Dear Lord, I pray, oh! help me break with sacrificial


The seal of Self, and pour the pent-up odors of my


Upon Thy "Feet!" Oh! Let me spend my days and

nights in toil,

That I, perchance, may save from needless wandering,

and help

To keep them in the narrow way that leads to light

and life.

Oh! let me lay within their trembling hands a rose of


A lily's pure and holy inspiration on their breast!

Dear Master, let me kneel with them in dark


Oh! help me boldly stand and meekly bear the scoffs

and jeers

Of cruel, mocking tongues! Oh! may I count no

cost, e'en life

Itself, too great to serve, to bless, to comfort Thy

dear "Feet,"

And when the last drop of my heart's devotion hath

been shed,

Oh, may I hear Thy sweet voice say, "She hath done

what she could!"



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