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SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the

laughing soil ;. When summer's balmy showers refresh the

mower's toil; When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow

and the flood,
In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his

Maker good.
The birds that wake the morning, and those that

love the shade;
The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the

drowsy glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on

his way,

The moon and stars, their Master's name in si

lent pomp display. Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the

sky, Shall inan, alone unthankful, his little prais e

deny ? No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons

cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Sa

viour, honor thee.

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The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of

summer fade, The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake

the shade; The winds be lulled- the sun and moon forget

their old decree, But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling

to thee,

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JERUSALEM, Jerusalem! enthroned once on high,
Thou favored home of God on earth, thou heaven

below the sky,
Now brought to bondage with thy sons, a curse

and grief to see, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, our tears shall flow for

thee.

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O, hadst thou known thy day of grace, and

flocked beneath the wing Of him who called thee lovingly, thine own an

ointed King, Then had the tribes of all the world gone up thy

pomp to see, And glory dwelt within thy gates, and all thy

sons been free. • And who art thou that mournest me ? replied

the ruin gray,
* And fear'st not rather that thyself may prove

A castaway?
I am a dried and abject branch,my place is given

to thee;
But wo to every barren graft of thy wild olive-

tree.

Our day of grace is sunk in night, our time of

mercy spent, For heavy was my children's crime, and strange

their punishment; Yet gaze not idly on our fall, but, sinner, warned

be, Who spared not his chosen seed may send his

wrath on thee.

Our day of grace is sunk in night, thy noon is

in its prime; 0, turn and seek thy Saviour's face in this ac

cepted time. So, Gentile,may Jerusalem a lessou prove to thee, And in the new Jerusalem thy home for ever be.'

THIRTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRIN

ITY.

• Who yonder on the desert heath,

Complains in feeble tone ?
- A pilgrim in the vale of death,

Faint, bleeding and alone.'
· How cam'st thou to this dismal strand

Of danger, grief, and shame?'
- From blessed Sion's holy land,

By folly led, I came.'
• What ruffian hand hath stript thee bare ?

Whose fury laid thee low?
-Sin for my footsteps twined her snare,

And death has dealt the blow.'

• Can art no medicine for thy wound,

Nor nature strength supply?' —“They saw me bleeding on the ground,

And passed in silence by.'

• Bui, sufferer, is no comfort near

Thy terrors to remove ?" - There is to whom my soul was dear, But I have scorned his love.'

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