And Time, our staff, but speeds us on our way, But, O, our souls take no account of time, Our spirits are like song-birds, nursed to light That, by a heavenly instinct, stretch their flight brood. We know our kindred there, In genial warmth, their golden plumage wear, And dream the music we were made to share, LORD, THE WAVES ARE BREAKING O'ER ME. From Hymns of the Church Militant. ORD, the waves are breaking o'er me and around; Oft of coming tempests I hear the moaning sound; Here, there is no safety, rocks on either hand— 'Tis a foreign roadstead, a strange and dreary land: Wherefore should I linger? others, gone before Long since, safe are landed on a calm and friendly shore. Now, the sailing orders, in mercy, Lord, bestow, Lord, the night is closing 'round my feeble bark, Lord, I would be near Thee, with Thee, where Thou art, Thine own word hath said, ""Tis better to depart." Lord, the lights are glancing from the distant shore, Oh, how sweet the summons falls upon my ear! Hark! the solemn answer! hark the promise sure, "Blessed are those servants who to the end endure!" Yet a little longer, hope and tarry on, Yet a little longer, weak and weary one! More to perfect patience, to grow in faith and love, More thy strength and wisdom, and faithfulness to prove; Then, the sailing orders thy Captain shall bestow, DROPPING DOWN THE RIVER. HORATIUS BONAR. D ROPPING down the troubled river, To the spring-embosomed shore; Dropping down the winding river, To the blue and star-lit sea; Dropping down the noisy river, To our peaceful, peaceful home; Dropping down the eddying river, With a Helmsman true and tried ; Dropping down the dangerous river, Mortality's dark, threatening river, With a sure and heavenly Guide; My soul from death hath died; Dropping down the rapid river, To the Resurrection-land; Where the living live forever, And the dead have joined the band, 34 MY FEET ARE WORN AND WEARY. S. ROBERTS. "The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be revealed in us." M Y feet are worn and weary with the march Over rough roads and up the steep hill-side; Oh, city of our God, I fain would see Thy pastures green, where peaceful waters glide. My hands are weary, laboring, toiling on, I sigh to gain thy glorious mercy-seat. My garments, travel-worn and stained with dust, Oft rent by briars and thorns that crowd my way, Would fain be made, Oh Lord, my righteousness, Spotless and white in heaven's unclouded ray. My eyes are weary looking at the sin, Impiety, and scorn upon the earth; My heart is weary of its own deep sin Sinning, repenting, sinning still alway; When shall my soul Thy glorious presence feel, And find its guilt, dear Saviour, washed away? |