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While angels in their songs rejoice
And say, “Behold he prays !"
The saints, in prayer, appear as one,
In word, in deed, and mind,
Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone,
The Holy Spirit pleads;
For sinner's intercedes.
O thou by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
Communing with our Hearts.
Return, my roving heart, return,
Wisdom and pleasure dwell at home ;
And thou, my God, whose piercing eye
Through all the mazes of my heart,
Then, with the visits of thy love,
Sufferings of Christ. Thou soft flowing Kedron, by thy silver stream, Our Saviour at midnight, when the moon's pensive beam
stray, Shone bright on the waters, would oftentimes
And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day! Come saints, bow before him, come bow at his
feet; O give him the glory the praise that is meet; Let joyful hosannas unceasing arise (skies.
And join the full chorus that gladdens the How damp were the vapours that fell on his
head, How hard was his pillow! how humble his bed'; The angels astonished grew sad at the sight,
And followed their master with solemn delight. Come saints, bow before him, &c.
O garden of Olivet, dear honor'd spot !
The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot! The theme most transporting to seraphs above !
The triumph of sorrow, the triumph of love! Come saints, bow before him, &c.
Altered from Maric de Fleury.
"Tis midnight-and on Olive's brow,
The star is dimm'd that lately shone ; 'Tis midnight, in the garden now,
The suffering Saviour prays alone.
'Tis midnight-and from all removed,
Emmanuel wrestles lone with fears; E'en the disciple that he loved Heeds not his master's grief and tears.
"Tis midnight-and for others guilt,
The man of sorrows weeps in blood; Yet he that hath in anguish knelt,
Is not forsaken by his God. 'Tis midnight-and from ether plains
Is borne the song that angels know; Unheard by mortals are the strains That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe.
From Mark's Coll.
Comfort under affliction.
When gathering clouds around I view,
To fly the good I would pursue,
If wounded love my bosom swell,
When mourning o'er some stone I bend,
And O! when I have safely past
R. Grant,-Edinburgh Sacred Poetry,