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Then, O my Lord, prepare
My soul for that great day;
O wash me in Thy precious blood,
And take my sins

away.

FAITH TRIUMPHING.

FAITH is the Christian's prop,
Whereon his sorrows lean,
It is "the substance of his hope,
His proof of things unseen."

It is the anchor of his soul,

When tempests rage and billows roll.

Faith is the polar star

That guides the Christian's bark;
Directs his wand'ring when afar,
To reach the holy ark.

It points his course where'er he roam,
And safely leads the pilgrim home.

Faith is the rainbow's form,

Hung on the brow of heaven;
The glory of the passing storm,
The pledge of mercy given.

It is the bright triumphal arch
Through which the saints to glory march.

Faith is the mountain rock,

Whose summit towers on high,
Secure above the tempest's shock,
An inmate of the sky.

Fixed on a prize of greater worth,

It views with scorn the things of earth.

The faith which works by love,
And purifies the heart,

A foretaste of the joys above

To mortals can impart.
The Christian's faith is simply this-
A passport to immortal bliss.

"THE DAY IS THINE: THE NIGHT ALSO

IS THINE."

Moore.

THOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see:
Its glow by day, its smile by night
Are but reflections caught from thee :
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day with farewell beam delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze,

Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues that make the sun decline

So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine.

When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh,
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath thy kindling eye.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine
And all things fair and bright are thine.

PEACEFUL REPOSE.

"So he giveth his beloved sleep."-PSALM cxxvii, 2.

THE day has vanished and the weary earth
Lies resting from a long day's toil and pain,
And, looking for a new day's early birth,

Seeks strength in slumber for its toil again.

We too would rest; but ere we close the eye
Upon the consciousness of waking thought,
Would calmly turn it to yon star-bright sky,
And lift the soul to Him who slumbers not.

Thou hast provided midnight's hour of peace,
Thou stretchest over us the wing of rest;
With more than all a parent's tenderness,
Foldest us sleeping to thy gentle breast.

Grief flies away; care quits our easy couch,
Till wakened by thy hand, when breaks the day-
Like the lone prophet by the angel's touch—
We rise to tread again our pilgrim way.

God of our life! God of each day and night!
Oh, keep us still till life's short race is run!
Until there dawns the long, long day of light,
That knows no night, yet needs no star nor sun.

HOPE IN GOD IN SICKNESS.

Robert Berrick, 1660.

WHAT though my harp and viol be
Both hung upon the willow tree ?
What though my bed be now my grave,
And for my house I darkness have ?
What though my healthful days are fled,
And I lie number'd with the dead?
Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,
To spring-though now a wither'd flower.

AN EPITAPH ON FOUR INFANTS.
Robinson.

BOLD Infidelity, turn pale, and die!
Beneath this stone four infants' ashes lie:
Say, are they lost or saved?

If death's by sin, they sinned because they're here;
If heaven's by works, in heaven they can't appear :
Reason, ah! how depraved!

Revere the Bible's sacred page: the knot's untied: They died! for Adam sinned-they live! for Jesus died.

THE CHURCH IN THE WILDERNESS.

FAR down the ages now,

Much of her journey done,

The pilgrim Church pursues her way,

Until her crown be won.

The story of the past

Comes up before her view;

How well it seems to suit her still

Old, and yet ever new.

It is the oft-told tale

Of sin and weariness,

Of grace and love yet flowing down,
To pardon and to bless.

No wider is the gate,

No broader is the way,

No smoother is the ancient path,
That leads to life and day.

No sweeter is the cup,

No less our lot of ill;

'Twas tribulation ages since,
'Tis tribulation still.

No slacker grows the fight,

No feebler is the foe,

No less the need of armour tried,

Of shield, and spear, and bow.

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