HE WAS DESPISED AND REJECTED OF MEN.

PS it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawned on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power For comfort, than an angel's mirth? That to the Cross the mourner's eye should

turn

Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun

Shines glorious on yon open grave,

And to and fro the tidings run,

"Who died to heal, is ris'n to save?”

Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends?

Yet it is so: for duly there

The bitter herbs of earth are set,

Till tempered by the Saviour's prayer,
And with the Saviour's life-blood wet,
They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,
Soft as imprisoned martyr's death-bed calm.

All turn to sweet-but most of all,
That bitterest to the lip of pride,
When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,
Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,
Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear
When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

Then like a long-forgotten strain

Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn,

As in all lowly hearts He suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His piercéd hands in vain would hide

His face from rude reproachful gaze,

His ears are open to abide

The wildest storm the tongue can raise,

He who with one rough word, some early day, Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.

But we by Fancy may assuage

The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage

Like wounded pilgrims safely laid,

Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed, That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

O! sname beyond the bitterest thought
That evil spirits ever framed,

That sinners know what Jesus wrought,

Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed— That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Would wince and fret at this world's little loss.

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry

Let not Thy blood on earth be spentLo, at Thy feet I fainting lie,

Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent; Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies.

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,
O let my heart no further roam,

'Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears,
Long since-O call Thy wanderer home;
To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side,
Where only broken hearts their sin and shame
may hide.

KEBLE.

JESUS CRUCIFIED.

Y Lord, my love was crucified,
He all the pains did bear;

But in the sweetness of His rest

He makes His servants share. How sweetly rest Thy saints above

Which in Thy bosom lie!

The Church below doth rest in hope
Of that felicity.

Thou, Lord, who daily feed'st Thy sheep,

Mak'st them a weekly feast;

Thy flocks meet in their several folds

Upon this day of rest:

Welcome and dear unto my soul

Are these sweet feasts of love:
But what a Sabbath shall I keep
When I shall rest above!

I bless Thy wise and wondrous love,
Which binds us to be free;

Which makes us leave our earthly snares,
That we may come to Thee!

I come, I wait, I hear, I pray!
Thy footsteps, Lord, I trace!
I sing to think this is the way
Unto my Saviour's face!

JOHN MASON, (1683.)