We know that we are not our own; we are God's
instruments, and our lives are set to the music of His
glory. How can we make such discord when we
know the sound goes up to Heaven ? How dare we



Poetiy and Prose of Mane R. Butler. ji'j



stretch forth careless or impious hands to smite the
chords of other hearts, when He who tuned them to
his praise is standing by to listen ?

We are not all strong, and some weak notes that
linger long behind, make no discord on the ear of
God. They shall "learn the new song." They were
weak, but did not falter in the long strife, whose end
is victory over Sin and Death.
Some loud songs are never heard in Heaven, but
float out and are lost in the infinite silence.
The psalm of life is not an idle song. It is the
grand march over the plains of Armageddon, where
we are fighting for the victory over the world, the
flesh — yes, and the spirit too — the spirit of selfish-
ness and all evil.
The great pulse of the universe is keeping time to
that song ; and the great heart of God is grieved when
we make a discord even in the heart of a little child.
J>



i8 Poetry and Prose of Marie R. Butler.
THE BROKEN EVERGREEN.
