Teach us in watchfulness and prayer
To wait for the appointed hour;
And fit us by Thy grace to share
The triumphs of Thy conquering power.

HEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave,

And home to Mary's house return'd,
Was this demanded,-if he yearn'd

To hear her weeping by his grave?

"Where wert thou, brother, those four days?"
There lives no record of reply,
Which telling what it is to die,
Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbours met,
The streets were fill'd with joyful sound;
A solemn gladness even crown'd

The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!
The rest remaineth unreveal'd;

He told it not; or something seal'd
The lips of that Evangelist.

Tennyson.

ER eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits, But," he was dead and there he sits, And He that brought him back is there."

Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,
And rests upon the Life indeed.

All other thought, all curious fears,
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure ;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?

Tennyson.

66

THOU IN FAITHFULNESS HAST AFFLICTED ME."

Y Father and my God,

M

O set this spirit free!

I'd gladly kiss the rod

That drove my trembling soul to Thee,

And made it Thine eternally.

Sweet were the bitterest smart,
That, with the bended knee,
Would bow this broken heart;
For who, my Saviour, who could be
A sufferer long, that flies to Thee?

The tears we shed for sin,

When Heaven alone can see,

Leave truer peace

within

Than worldly smiles-which cannot be

Lit up, my God, with smiles from Thee.

Then give me any lot,

I'll bless Thy just decree,

So Thou art not forgot,

And I may ne'er dependent be

On any friend, my God, but Thee!

Monsell.

B

"" REJECTED OF MEN."

IRDS have their quiet nest,

Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful

bed;

All creatures have their rest,—

But Jesus had not where to lay His head.

Winds have their hour of calm,

And waves to slumber on the voiceless deep;
Eve has its breath of balm,

To hush all scenes and sounds to sleep.

The wild deer hath its lair,

The homeward flocks the shelter of their shed;
All have their rest from care,—

But Jesus had not where to lay His head.

And yet He came to give

The weary, heavy-laden, rest,

To bid the sinner live,

And soothe our griefs to slumber on His breast.

What then, am I, my God,

Permitted thus the path of peace to tread ;

Peace purchased by the blood

Of Him who had not where to lay His head?

I, who once made Him grieve,

I, who once bid His gentle spirit mourn,
Whose hand essay'd to weave,

For His meek brow, the cruel crown of thorn,

Oh why should I have peace,

Why, but for that unchanged, undying love,

Which could not rest nor cease, Until it made me heir of joys above?

Yes, but for pardoning grace, I feel I never should in glory see The brightness of that face,

That once was pale and agonized for me.

Let the birds seek their nest,

Foxes their holes, and men their peaceful bed;
Come, Saviour, on my breast,
Deign to repose Thy oft-rejected head.

Come, give me rest, and take

The only rest on earth Thou lov'st; within
A heart that, for Thy sake,

Lies bleeding, broken, penitent for sin.

Monsell.