As unseen hands roll back the doors, the light that floods the very air Is the dim shadow from within, of the great glory hidden there. And morn and eve, and soon and late, the shadows pass within the gate, As one by one they enter in, and the dim portals close once more. The halo seems to linger round those kneeling closest to the door, The joy that lightened from that place shines still upon the watcher's face. The faint, low echo that we hear of far off music seems to fill The silent air with love and fear, and the world's clamors all grow still Until the portals close again, and leave us toiling on in pain. Complain not that the way is long! What road is long that leads us There? But let the angel take thy hand, and lead thee up the misty stair, And then, with trusting heart, await the opening of the golden gate! SHALL WE GATHER AT THE RIVER? SHALL we gather at the river, Where bright angel-feet have trod, With its crystal tide forever Flowing by the throne of God? On the margin of the river, On the bosom of the river, Where the Saviour-King we own, Ere we reach the shining river, At the smiling of the river, Rippling with the Saviour's face, Soon we'll reach the shining river, ONE SWEETLY SOLEMN THOUGHT. PHOEBE CARY. O` NE sweetly solemn thought I am nearer home to-day, Than I ever was before. Nearer my Father's House, Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer wearing the crown. But, lying dark between, Winding down through the night, Is the dim and unknown stream That leads at last to light. Closer, closer my steps Come to the dark abysm; Closer, death to my lips, Presses the awful chrism. Oh; if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink;- Even to-day than I think; Father perfect my trust! Let my spirit feel in death. On the rock of a living faith! O HAPPY PILGRIMS, SPOTLESS FAIR. PILGRIMS we are, to Canaan bound, This wilderness we travel round, O happy pilgrims, spotless fair, A few more days, or weeks, or years, O happy pilgrims, spotless fair, IT IS TOLD ME I MUST DIE. [Richard Langhorne, a lawyer, was unjustly condemned and put to death as a traitor, in the reign of Charles II. Just before his execution he wrote the following poem. In the language of the Quarterly Review, a poem it must be called, though it is not verse. Perhaps there is not in this, or any other language, a poem which appears to have flowed so entirely from the heart.] I T is told me I must die; O happy news! Be glad, O my soul! And rejoice in Jesus, thy Saviour. If He intended thy perdition, Would He have laid down His life for thee? Would He have called thee with so much love, It is told me I must die; O happy news! Come on, my dearest soul; Behold thy Jesus calls thee; He prayed for thee upon His cross; There He extended His arms to receive thee; There He bowed down His head to kiss thee; There He opened His heart to give thee entrance; There He gave up His life to purchase life for thee; It is told me I must die; |