hings yet, consider them now!

Let Him show us the vision of the Glory, and bring us to the very end of
self, let Him touch our lips with the live coal, and set us on fire to
burn for Him, yea, burn with consuming love for Him, and a purpose none
can turn us from, and a passion like a pure white flame, "a passion for
the Glory of God!"

Oh, may this passion consume us! burn the self out of us, burn the love
into us--for God's Glory we ask it, Amen.

"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and
wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing . . . Blessing,
and honour, and glory, and power be unto Him."

APPENDIX

Some Indian Saints

THERE was one--he has joined the company of Indian saints in glory
now--the poet of the Mission, and our friend,--one so true in all his
ways that a Hindu lad observing him with critical schoolboy eyes, saw in
him, as in a mirror, something of the holiness of God, and, won by that
look, became a Christian and a winner of souls. Some of the noblest
converts of our Mission are the direct result of that Tamil poet's life.
There is another; he is old, and all through his many years he has been
known as the one-word man, the man of changeless truth. He is a village
pastor, whom all the people love. Go into his cottage any time, any day,
and you will find one and another with him, and you will see the old
man, with his loving face and almost quite blind eyes, bending patiently
to catch every word of the story they are telling, and then you will
hear him advising and comforting, as a father would his child. For miles
round that countryside the people know him, and he is honoured by Hindus
and by Christians as India honours saints.

I remember once seeing the poet and the pastor together. They belonged
to widely different castes, but that was forgotten now. The two old
white heads were bent over the same letter--a letter telling of the
defection of a young convert each had loved as a son, and they were
weeping over him. It was the ancient East living its life before us: "O
my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O
Absalom my son, my son!" But what made it a thing to remember in this
land of Caste divisions, even among Christians, was the overflowing of
the love that made those two men one.

There are others. Money, the place it holds in a man's affections, is
supposed to be a fair test of character. We could tell of a