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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
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.
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 TENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
JERUSALEM, Jerusalem! enthroned once on high,
below the sky,
and grief to see, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, our tears shall flow for
thee. 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
& castaway? I am a dried and abject branch, my place is given
to thee; But wo to every barren graft of thy wild olive
• Our day of grace is sunk in night, our time of
mercy spent, Forsheavy 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
• Who yonder on the desert heath,
Complains in feeble tone ?'
Faint, bleeding and alone.'
Of danger, grief, and shame ?"
By folly led, I came.' • What ruffian hand hath stript thee bare?
Whose fury laid thee low?'
Sin for my footsteps twined her snare,
• 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.'