My heart gives thanks for yonder hill,
That makes this valley safe and still;
That shuts from sight my onward way
And sets a limit to my day;
That keeps my thoughts so tired and weak,
From seeking what they should not seek.
On that fair bound across the west
My eyes find pasturage and rest,
And of its dewy stillness drink,
As do the stars upon its brink;
It shields me from the days to come,
And makes the present hour my home.
Time is given to us in days. It was so at the beginning. We need not puzzle or perplex ourselves trying to understand just what the day was in which God wrought in creating the universe. We may leave this matter to the scientific men and the theologians who are quite willing to give us their thoughts or guesses on the subject. But it is interesting to know that each day had its particular apportionment in the stupendous work. At the end of the creative periods we read, “There was evening and there was morning, one day.” So it has been ever since. Time is measured to us not by years, but by days. Each day has its own particular section of duty, something that belongs, that is to be done, in between sunrise and sunset, that cannot be done at all if not done in its own hours. “There was evening and there was morning, one day, a second day, a third day.”
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