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〔大衛的詩。〕耶和華啊,求你聽我的禱告,留心聽我的懇求,憑你的信實和公義應允我。 1 O LORD, hear my prayer, listen to my cry for mercy; in your faithfulness and righteousness come to my relief.
耶和華啊,求你速速應允我!我心神耗盡!不要向我掩面,免得我像那些下坑的人一樣。 7 Answer me quickly, O LORD; my spirit fails. Do not hide your face from me or I will be like those who go down to the pit.
求你使我清晨得聽你慈愛之言,因我倚靠你;求你使我知道當行的路,因我的心仰望你。 8 Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.
May 4 "He maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth and his hands make whole." (Job 5:18.) The ministry of a great sorrow. AS we pass beneath the hills which have been shaken by the earthquake and torn by convulsion, we find that periods of perfect repose succeed those of destruction. The pools of calm water lie clear beneath their fallen rocks, the water lilies gleam, and the reeds whisper among the shadows; the village rises again over the forgotten graves, and its church tower, white through the storm twilight, proclaims a renewed appeal to His protection "in whose hand are all the corners of the earth, and the strength of the hills is his also." ─Ruskin. God ploughed one day with an earthquake, And drove His furrows deep! The huddling plains upstarted, The hills were all aleap! But that is the mountains' secret, Age-hidden in their breast; "God's peace is everlasting, Are the dream-words of their rest. He made them the haunts of beauty, The home elect of His grace; He spreadeth His mornings upon them, His sunsets light their face. His winds bring messages to them─ Wild storm-news from the main; They sing it down the valleys In the love-song of the rain. They are nurseries for young rivers, Nests for His flying cloud, Homesteads for new-born races, Masterful, free, and proud. The people of tired cities Come up to their shrines and pray; God freshens again within them, As He passes by all day. And lo, I have caught their secret! The beauty deeper than all! This faith that life's hard moments, When the jarring sorrows befall, Are but God ploughing His mountains; And those mountains yet shall be The source of His grace and freshness, And His peace everlasting to me. -William C. Gannett.