A collection of scriptures with appropriate quotations for every day in the year.

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March 5
  • 05

    March 5

    All day
    If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things — Phil. 4:8.
    Things of any virtue or value, things in any degree praiseworthy—the noble words or noble deeds or noble sentiments of anybody—we may safely meditate upon, and as a consequence find ourselves growing toward those ideals on which our new hearts, minds and wills thus feed. We shall become more and more transformed by the renewing of our minds, and approach nearer and nearer to the glorious likeness of our Lord and Master, being changed from glory to glory, inch by inch, step by step, little by little, during the present life; and our thoughts being in this attitude and our union with the Lord maintained, we shall have part in the resurrection of the just, which will perfect us in the Lord's image and likeness—Z '03, 9 (R 3129).
    The virtues refer more to the graces of justice, and the praises to the graces of charity. Since the mind is bound to think, how much more noble it is to contemplate good thoughts and qualities, the virtues and the praises! A low plane of contemplation is that of things; a higher is that of persons; but the highest is the contemplation of noble thoughts and qualities, especially as they exist in God, in Christ and in the saints; and this is also the best way of becoming like them—P '36, 31.
    Parallel passages: 2 Pet. 1:3, 5; Josh. 1:8; Psa. 1:2; 4:4; 19:14; 39:3; 49:3; 63:5, 6; 77:10-12; 104:34; 119:11, 15, 16, 23, 48, 59, 97, 99; 139:17, 18; 143:5; 1 Tim. 4:13.

    Hymns: 198, 95, 141, 1, 125, 150, 196.
    Poems of Dawn, 290: My Life Is But a Weaving.
    Tower Reading: Z '16, 166 (R 5908).

    Questions: Have I this week meditated on the virtues and praises? How? What helped or hindered therein? In what circumstances? With what results?



    MY life is but a weaving
    Between my Lord and me;
    He chooses all the colors
    And works on steadily.

    Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
    And I, in blinded pride,
    Forget He sees the upper,
    And I the underside.

    The dark threads are as needful
    In the Weaver's skilful hand,
    As the threads of gold and silver
    In the pattern He has planned.

    Not till the loom is silent,
    And the shuttles cease to fly,
    Will God unroll the fabric,
    And show the reason why.


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