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Who is the King of Glory, who ?—
The Lord that all our foes o'ercame :
Lo! his triumphal chariot waits,
Who is the King of Glory, who?—
The King of saints and angels too;
God over all, forever blessed!
READ how, in Gethsemane,
The suffering Saviour bowed the knee : My tears fell fast upon the book,—
It was so grandly sad to read.
Of Him, in darkness, grief, and need-
Through all thy shades, Gethsemane,
I too had my Gethsemane :
The hour of darkness came to me,
In grief and fear I drank, alas,
I found the One who died for me.
WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
IVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
Blood must be my body's balmer,
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains,
There will I kiss
The bowle of blisse,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken-hill :
My soul will be a-dry before;
But after that will thirst no more.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
POOR wayfaring man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer
I had not power to ask his name,
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
I spied him where a fountain burst
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran to raise the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
'T was night; the floods were out,-it blew A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest-
Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath-
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed.
In prison I saw him next, condemned
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die;
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, "I will."
Then in a moment, to my view,
The tokens in his hands I knew
My Saviour stood before mine eyes.
These deeds shall thy memorial be;