" In all things, we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us."

From the mount of victory-
Oh, take care!
Steep is the descent, and rough-
Oh, beware!
Many a child of God hath tripped,-
Through unwatchfulness hath slipped,
And of blessing hath been stripped
Unaware.

When the conquest hath been won,
And the roar
Of the battle-fierce and strong-
Is no more,
Think not on the victory,
But of Him who fought for thee,-
Bearing, on the accursed tree,
Sorrow sore.

Thou art but a broken vase
In the hand
Of the Mightiest Conqueror
In the land.
Thou hast but to wait and see,
With thine armor girt on thee,
How the blessed Lord for thee
Takes His stand.

Take no credit to thyself,
Foolish one,
If in battle or in race
Thou hast won.
Give the glory to His name
Who, thy lost soul to reclaim,
Suffered scorn and death and shame,-
God's own Son.

H. McD.