« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
There rung the hammer's heavy stroke among the echoing rocks,
There chased the chisel's keen, sharp edge, the rude, unshapen blocks.
Thence polished. perfected, complete, each fitted to its place,
For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base, They bore them o'er the waves that rolled their billowy swell between
The shores of Tyre's imperial pride and Judah's hills of green.
With gradual toil the work went on, through days and months and years,
Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen tears;
And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp it rose,-
Brethren in Christ! to holier things the simple type apply;
Their Lebanon—the place of toil—of previous moulding—
From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews
The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth him to choose: Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine,
Moulded beneath his patient hand, in purity divine.
Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek;
THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE.
See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened cheek:
Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrew some idol fond;
Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious, tender bond.
Behold he prays whose lips were sealed in silent scorn before;
Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door; Behold he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past: Oh! for more mouldings of the hand that works a change so vast!
Ye looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God matured,
What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured!
But marked ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it gave,
Ere Jesus bore his servant home, across the darksome wave?—
Home to the place his grace designed that chosen soul to fill, In the bright temple of the saved, "upon his holy hill;" Home to the noiselessness, the peace of those sweet shrines above,
Whose stones shall never be displaced-set in redeeming love.
Lord, chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away,
Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more.
Soul and Body.
OOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine, to aggravate thy store! By terms divine in selling hours of dross !
Within be fed, without be rich no more! So shalt thou feed on death that feeds on men, And death once dead, there's no more dying then. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The Lord the Good Shepherd.
HE Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know;
Restores me when wandering, redeems when oppressed.
Through the valley and shadow of death though I stray,
No harm can befall with my Comforter near.
In the midst of affliction my table is spread ;
O! what shall I ask of thy providence more?
O SAVIOUR, WHOSE MERCY.
Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God!
Through the land of their sojourn, thy kingdom of love.
O Saviour! whose Mercy.
SAVIOUR! whose mercy, severe in its kindness,
Hath chastened my wanderings and guided my way, Adored be the power that illumined my blindness, And weaned me from phantoms that smiled to betray.
Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair,
I followed the rainbow, I caught at the toy; And still in displeasure thy goodness was there, Disappointing the hope and defeating the joy.
The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below;
The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam; Sweet whispered the breeze-but it whispered of woe; And bitterness flowed in the soft-flowing stream.
So cured of my folly, yet cured but in part,
I turned to the refuge thy pity displayed; And still did this eager and credulous heart
Weave visions of promise that bloomed but to fade.
I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven
I dreamed of celestial rewards and renown,
I grasped at the triumph that blesses the brave;
Subdued and instructed, at length to thy will
There are mansions exempted from sin and from woe,
Tempted like as we are."
HEN gathering clouds around I view,
He sees my wants, allays my fears,
If aught should tempt my soul to stray
Still He who felt temptation's power
If wounded love my bosom swell,