Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us; Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us. With thee, th' Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. DUTY OF COMFORTING THE AFFLICTED. JEREMY TAYLOR. CERTAIN it is, that as nothing can better do it, so there is nothing greater, for which God made our tongues, next to reciting his praises, than to minister comfort to a weary soul. And what greater measure can we have than that we should bring joy to our brother, who, with his dreary eyes, looks to heaven and round about, and cannot find so much rest as to lay his eyelids close together-than that thy tongue should be tuned with heavenly accents, and make the weary soul to listen for light and ease; and when he perceives that there is such a thing in the world, and in the order of things, as comfort and joy, to begin to break out from the prison of his sorrows at the door of sighs and tears, and by little and little melt into showers and refreshment? This is glory to thy voice, and employment fit for the brightest angel. But so have I seen the sun kiss the frozen earth, which was bound up with the images of death, and the colder breath of the north; and then the waters break from their enclosures, and melt with joy, and run in useful 18 THE HOUR OF DEATH. channels; and the flies do rise again from their little graves in walls, and dance a while in the air, to tell that there is joy within, and that the great mother of creatures will open the stock of her new refreshment, become useful to mankind, and sing praises to her Redeemer. So is the heart of a sorrowful man under the discourses of a wise comforter; he breaks from the despairs of the grave, and the fetters and chains of sorrow; he blesses God, and he blesses thee, and he feels his life returning; for to be miserable is death, but nothing is life but to be comforted; and God is pleased with no music from below so much as in the thanksgiving songs of relieved widows, of supported orphans, of rejoicing, and comforted, and thankful persons. "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not?"-HEBREWS Xii. THE HOUR OF DEATH. MRS. HEMANS. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care; Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam; Thou art where music melts upon the air; And the world calls us forth - and thou art there. 20 WHAT IS DEATH? Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! "It is not the design or plan of God-his nature will not allow of any such design or plan-to deprive his creatures of happiness, but only to pour the cup of bitterness into all that happiness, and smite all that joy and prosperity which the creature has in any thing out of Himself.” FENELON. WHAT IS DEATH? REV. GEORGE CROLEY. WHAT is death? 'tis to be free; No more to love, or hope, or fear; To join the dread equality; All, all alike are humble there. The mighty wave Wraps lord and slave. Nor pride, nor poverty, dares come Within that refuge house—the tomb. Spirit with the drooping wing, Thou of all earth's kings art king; Their multitude Sink like waves upon the shore; What's the grandeur of the earth The wondrous band Bards, heroes, sages, side by side- Earth hath hosts, but thou canst show Many a million for her one. Through thy gates the mortal flow Has for countless years rolled on. Back from the tomb No step has come; There fixed till the last thunder's sound Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound. |