'
"I remember once hearing a certain hymn about prayer. I never could
remember all the verses, but most of it has remained deeply engraved in my
memory although I only heard it once. It was sung by a young missionary
from Africa who happened to be passing through Paris. It was at a meeting
which I attended as a young girl many years ago."
"Please sing it to us, dear Celestina," said Paula, "even though you may
not remember it all."
"Well, my dear young friends," said Celestina, "that old hymn has been my
comfort and the inspiration of my prayers through all the years since I
heard it sung so long ago in Paris where I lived when I was young. Here it
is"; and as those quavering notes sounded we seemed lifted toward that
heavenly Throne of which she sang.
On heavenly heights an Angel stands.
He takes our prayer in heavenly hands,
And with celestial incense rare,
He mingles every heart-felt prayer
Of those who trust His precious blood
To reconcile their souls to God.
"Then from that glorious, heavenly place
Descend the lightnings of His grace;
To heal, to strengthen, and provide,
For those who trust in Him Who died.
'Who died,' I say?--Yea, He Who rose
Triumphant, Conqueror of His foes!
"Who is this priestly Angel bright,
Who thus dispels our darkest night?
'Tis He who sets the captive free,
Jesus Who died on Calvary's tree;
Who is, Who was, and is to come--
The glory of His Father's Home!
"Well," said Paula softly as the last note died away, "I've prayed much for
my dear uncle that he might be saved.
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