Nor grieve any more, by my sins, And round me Thy brightness be pour'd! And then nevermore shall the fears, Intrude on my blissful repose: My soul is in haste to be gone; Oh! bear me, ye cherubim, up, And waft me away to His throne !-Cowper. 469. CHRIST: His power to cleanse. A LEPER once to Jesus came, And trusting in His love: 'I will! Be clean!' the Lord replied, His leprosy was cleansed away, His heart was fill'd with joy that day, Lord, I a suppliant also bow, For I Thy power have need of now, To cleanse away my guilt; The leprosy of sin I feel, Its woe, its curse; but Thou canst heal- Oh, let Thy power again be seen! Speak Thou the word: 'I will! Be clean!' On me let mercy shine, My guilt be pardon'd-heart be heal'd--- 470. CHRIST: His resurrection. CHRIST the Lord is risen again! He who gave for us His life, He who bore all pain and loss He whose path no records tell, Who the strong man arm'd hath bound, He who slumber'd in the grave, Is exalted now to save; Now through Christendom it rings Now He bids us tell abroad, How we, too, may enter heaven: Thou our Paschal Lamb indeed, Let us sing by night and day: Hallelujah! Tr. from the German by Miss Winkworth. 471. CHRIST: His resurrection. ERE yet the dawn has fill'd the skies, O stronger Thou than Death and Hell! If Jesus lives, can I be sad? I know He loves me, and am glad ; He feeds me, comforts and defends, No more to fear or grief I bow, The joys prepared for me to-day 472 CHRIST: His resurrection. THE morning purples all the sky, All praise and worship be On earth, in heaven, to God most High, While He, the King, all strong to save, On earth, in heaven, to God most High, Death's captive, in his gloomy prison, But He has master'd Death, is risen, On earth, in heaven, to God most High, The shining angels cry, 'Away With grief; no spices bring; On earth, in heaven, to God most High, That Thou our Paschal Lamb mayst be, Jesus, Deliverer, set us free From the dread death of sin. Glory to God! our glad lips cry; All praise and worship be On earth, in heaven, to God most High, Roman Breviary, tr. by A. R. Thompson. 473 CHRIST: His sympathy with us. THOU, who didst stoop below To drain the cup of woe, Wearing the form of frail mortality, Thy blessed labours done, Thy crown of victory won, Hast pass'd from earth, pass'd to Thy home on high; Our eyes behold Thee not, Yet hast Thou not forgot Those who have placed their hope, their trust, in Thee; Before Thy Father's face Thou hast prepared a place, That where Thou art, there they may also be. It was no path of flowers Shrink from the narrow way, When clouds and darkness are around it spread ? O Thou, who art our life, Be with us through the strife! Thy holy head by earth's fierce storms was bow'd; Raise Thou our eyes above, To see a Father's love Beam, like the bow of promise, through the cloud. E'en through the awful gloom Which hovers o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be ; Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy way to tread, Friend, Guardian, Saviour, which doth lead to Thee! Sarah A. Miles. 474. CHRIST: His treatment of the weak. WHEN evening choirs the praises hymn'd The high priest walk'd his rounds, and trimm'd And if, perchance, some flame burn'd low, The smoking flax was quench'd. But Thou who walkest, Priest Most High ! What things are weak, and near to die, And swift it shoots up through the dark, The shepherd that to stream and shade On reedy stop soft music made, And if, perchance, the reed were crush'd, It could not more be used,- Its mellow music marr'd and hush'd, He brake it, when so bruised. But Thou, good Shepherd, who dost feed Thy flock in pastures green, Thou dost not break the bruised reed That sorely crush'd hath been ;- Lord, once my love was all a-blaze, But now it burns so dim! My life was praise, but now my days Make a poor broken hymn; Yet ne'er by Thee am I forgot, But help'd in deepest need, The smoking flax Thou quenchest not, O NORTH, with all thy vales of green! Lo! in the clouds of heaven appears He brings a train of brighter years, He comes a guilty world to bless When He shall reign from pole to pole, Shall strive to pattern theirs : And He who conquer'd Death shall win The mightier conquest over Sin.—Bryant. Our outward lips confess the Name Love only knoweth whence it came, Blow, winds of God, awake, and blow Shine out, O Light divine! and show Hush every lip, close every book, We may not climb the heavenly steeps Of Him we know in outward shape He cometh not a King to reign; The world's long hope is dim: The weary centuries watch in vain The clouds of heaven for Him. Death comes; life goes; the asking eye And ear are answerless; The grave is dumb; the hollow sky Is sad with silentness. The letter fails, and systems fall, And not for signs in heaven above Who know with John His smile of love, In joy of inward peace, or sense He is His own best evidence: No fable old, nor mythic lore, But warm, sweet, tender, even yet And faith has still its Olivet; The healing of His seamless dress Is by our beds of pain: We touch Him in life's throng and press, Through Him the first fond prayers are said The last low whispers of our dead O Lord and Master of us all! Whate'er our name or sign, We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call, Thou judgest us; Thy purity Doth all our lusts condemn ; Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight; Thy healing pains; a keen distress Yet, weak and blinded though we be, Thou dost our service own : To Thee our full humanity, The wrong of man to man on Thee Inflicts a deeper wrong. Who hates, hates Thee; who loves, becomes All sweet accords of hearts and homes Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine! Within our earthly sod, Most human and yet most Divine, O Love! O Life !-our faith and sight In differing phrase we pray; The homage that we render Thee Divides the Cross and Throne. To do Thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds; And simple trust can find Thy ways We miss with chart of creeds. No pride of self Thy service hath, Apart from Thee, all gain is loss, Alone, O Love ineffable! Thy saving name is given : To turn aside from Thee is hell, To walk with Thee is heaven. How vain, secure in all Thou art, Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, What may Thy service be? Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word, But simply following Thee. We bring no ghastly holocaust, Thy litanies, sweet offices Of love and gratitude; In vain shall waves of incense drift In vain the minster turret lift Its brazen weights of sound. The heart must ring Thy Christmas-bells, Thy inward altars raise : Its faith and hope Thy canticles; And its obedience, praise.—Whittier. 478. CHRIST: our Life. O GLORIOUS Head, Thou livest now! To raise Thy children from the strife With self and sin, with death and dark distress, Earth knows Thee not, but evermore Thou liv'st in Paradise, in peace; Thither my soul would also soar, Let me from all the creatures cease: Dead to the world, but to Thy Spirit known, To rise as Thou hast risen to-day. Work Thou in me, and heavenward guide My thoughts and wishes, that my heart Waver no more nor turn aside, But fix for ever where Thou art. Thou art not far from us: who love Thee well While yet on earth, in heaven with Thee may dwell. 479. CHRIST: the Bread of Life. THE ages show their garner'd sheaves of thought, But in an upper room in Palestine, Is one that giveth mystic bread and wine, I reach out for that nourishment divine, 480. CHRIST: the Good Shepherd. 'IN pastures green'-not always-sometimes He Who knoweth best, in kindness leadeth me In weary ways, where heavy shadows be. Out of the sunshine, warm and soft and bright, Only for this-I know He holds my hand, But when the storms beat loudest, and I cry Above the tempest wild I hear Him say: ART thou weary, art thou languid, art thou sore distrest? 'Come to me,' saith One,—and 'coming, be at rest!' Hath He marks to lead me to Him,-if He be my Guide? In His feet and hands are wound-prints, and His side! Is there diadem, as monarch, that His brow adorns? If I still hold closely to Him, what hath He at last? Angels, martyrs, prophets, pilgrims, answer, Yes! 482. CHRIST. IF to-day thou turn'st aside In thy luxury and pride, Wrapp'd within thyself, and blind Or if, waking, thou dost see In our fallen, struggling race- |