MARCH 9

 

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.

 

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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?

 

"SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD"

 

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

they sat at meat,

A woman came and silent stood within the open

door—

Close pressed against her throbbing heart an alabaster

box

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

fear,

She dreaded to attract the curious gaze of those

within,

And yet her well-beloved Friend was there, her

Master, Lord.

With wondrous intuition she divined that this might

be

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

else,

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

feet,

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

long

And silken hair and wiped His sacred feet,—when

suddenly

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

make!

Again a voice re-echoed through the room, her

blessed Lord's,

(He half arose and gently laid His hand upon her

hair)—

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

come,

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

King—

"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

hand

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

heart

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

love,

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

Dear Master, let me kneel with them in dark

Gethsemane;

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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