Is there a friend whose image dear
May prove an idol worshipped here?
Implore thy GOD that nought may be
A shadow betwixt heaven and thee.
Is there a hope, with which thy heart
Would almost feel it death to part?
Implore the LORD that hope to crown,
Or give thee strength to lay it down.
Whate'er the care that breaks thy rest,
Whate'er the hope that swells thy breast:
Cast before GOD that hope, that care,
And change anxiety to prayer.
THE OPPRESSED SOUL'S GREAT
My guilty soul, how long beset
With terrors all around;
Whilst law and justice claimed their debt, And I no payment found.
In works and duties long I tried
Some inward peace to find:
The more I strove the more I cried,
Ah! much is left behind.
My weary soul the task renewed,
And fair the prize would win :
But when my righteous deeds I viewed,
I found each deed was sin.
Now Sinai's thunders louder roll,
And sense proclaimed me lost;
Distracting anguish seized my soul,
My soul to ruin tossed!
At length I heard the gospel sound-
O joyful sound to me!
JEHOVAH just may still be found,
And set the ungodly free.
That precious blood which faith applies,
In spite of hell or sin;
My guilty conscience pacifies,
And spreads sweet peace within.
My spotless SAVIOUR lived for me,
On Him my sins were laid;
And whilst I view Him rise, I see
Each mite was fully paid.
Ascended now to GOD on high,
Above the ethereal skies;
He bids me to His Throne draw nigh,
And all my wants supplies.
Though sad backslidings me reprove,
He those backslidings heals;
Displays His never-changing love,
And all His grace reveals.
Say, tender shepherd, tell me why
To me this wond'rous love;
That such a poor lost sheep as I
Such saving grace should prove?
Reasons I seek, but seek-in vain,
For none I e'er shall know ;
Save that for ever this is plain,-
GOD's love would have it so.
THE world is grown old, and her pleasures are past,
The world is grown old, and her form may not last;
The world is grown old, and trembles for fear,
For sorrows abound, and judgment is near.
The sun in the heaven is languid and pale,
And feeble and few are the fruits of the vale;
And the hearts of the nations fail them for fear,
For the world is grown old, and the judgment is near.
The king on his throne, the bride in her bower,
The children of pleasure all feel the sad hour;
The roses are faded, and tastless the cheer,
For the world is grown old, and judgment is near.
The world is grown old; but should we complain, Who have tried her and known that her promise is vain ?
Our heart is in heaven, our home is not here,
And we look for our crown when judgment is near.
A PARISH priest was of the pilgrim train,
An awful, reverend, and religious man :
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor,
As GOD hath clothed his own Ambassador;
For such on earth his Bless'd REDEEMER bore.
With eloquence innate his tongue was armed,
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charmed:
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky.
He bore his great commission in his look;
But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke.
He preached the joys of heaven and pains of hell,
And warned the sinner with becoming zeal,
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell:
He taught the gospel rather than the law;
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared:
But when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws the cumbrous load away.
Lightning and thunder, Heaven's artillery,
As harbingers before the ALMIGHTY fly :
Those but proclaim His style, and disappear,
The "still small voice" succeeds, and GOD is there.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered,
Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought,
A living sermon of the truths he taught.
For this, by rules his life he squared,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard:
For priests, he said, are patterns to the rest,
The gold of heaven, who bear God's name impressed.
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen:
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.
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