Dove, whom the Lord hath wounded,
No more, let earth delay,
But onward, upward, be our flight,
To realms, of cloudless day!
THE BLESSED SUN WILL SHINE.
""Tis cloudy now. Sing while the clouds are thick.
THE BLESSED SUN WILL SHINE!"
"SING, while the clouds are thick,
"The blessed Sun will shine;"
The God who hears the infant's cry,
Will surely answer thine:
Before the beaming of His smile,
All forms of sorrow pass,
Like summer clouds, that float at noon,
Athwart the waving grass.
"SING, while the clouds are thick,
"The blessed Sun will shine;"
A few short years, and from the sky
Beams forth the Saviour's sign:
Above the brightness of the Sun,
It flames, with living light;
And heaven and earth, through endless days,
Their songs of joy, unite.
For the Fatherless and Widows' Society.
GOD of grace, in glory reigning,
Far above the eternal sky,
Hear the orphan's sad complaining,
See the widow's tearful eye.
Thou, all strength and power, possessing,
Health and comfort, canst impart,
Crown the orphan's cup, with blessing,
Fill with joy, the widow's heart.
Lord, they were thine own possession,
In that old Mosaic day,
When, to Judah's favoured nation,
Thus, thou bad'st, the prophet say;
"When the ripened harvest, brought in,
"Fills thy barns, with golden grain,
"Seek not thou, the sheaf forgotten;
""Tis the homeless stranger's gain!
"When thine olive yields its treasure,
"Search not every bough, with care;
"God will give thee, fuller measure,
"If thou leave the orphan's share!
"When the land, with purple staining,
"Thou shalt bring thy vintage, in,
"Grudge not, then, the grapes remaining;
"Which the widow's hand may glean!"
Lord, whose mercy never changes,
Whose uprightness, still is sure,
Still the widow's cause avenges,
Helps the fatherless and poor,
Now, Thine Holy Ghost, outsending,
From Thy glorious throne, above;
Fill the hearts, before Thee bending,
With Thine own exulting love!
SAW ye that cloud which arose in the west,
As the burning sun sank down to rest,
How it spread so wide, and towered so high,
On the molten gold, of that glowing sky,
That it seemed, oh it seemed, like some archéd way,
As it beamed and gleamed, in that glorious ray,
Where the spirit freed,
From its earthly weed,
And robed, in the white,
Of the saints in light,
Might pass, from the realms of sin and woe,
To that world, where ceaseless pleasures flow.
Ye saw that cloud; how it towered alone,
Like an archéd path, o'er the billows thrown;
How its pillars of purple and azure, stood
And mocked at the dash of the angry flood;
While it beamed, oh it beamed, from its battlements high, As it gleamed and streamed, in that western sky,
Such a flood of mellow and golden light,
As charmed and fixed, the ravished sight,
And shed, on earth's benighted way,
The peace and joy, of celestial day.
Such, as we haste to our better home,
Saviour, such, be the sights that come;
Thus, while the visions of time flit by,
And the fashion of earth, grows dim to our eye,
Then let the light, oh the light, of Thy love,
Beam bright, on our sight, from the mansions above,
Rending the gloom,
That enwraps the tomb,
And guiding our eye,
To that world on high,
Where the people that love Thee, forever shall share,
The rest, Thou hast purchased, and gone to prepare.
I'VE tried, in much bewilderment, to find,
Under which phase of loveliness, in thee,
I love thee best; but, oh, my wandering mind,
Hovers o'er many sweets, as doth a bee,
And all I feel, is contradictory.
I love to see thee gay; because thy smile,
Is sweeter than the sweetest thing, I know;
And, then, thy limpid eyes, are all the while,
Sparkling and dancing; and thy fair cheeks glow,
With such a sunset lustre, that e'en so,
I love to see thee sad; for then, thy face
Expresseth an angelic misery;
Thy tears are shed, with such a gentle grace;
Thy words fall soft, yet sweet as words can be,
That, though 'tis selfish, I confess, in me,
I love to hear thee speak, because thy voice,
Than music's self, is still more musical,
Its tones make every living thing rejoice;
And I, when, on mine ear those accents fall,
In sooth, I do believe, that, most of all,
I love to hear thee speak.
Yet, no! I love thee mute; for, then, thine eyes
Express so much, thou hast no need of speech,
And there's a language, that in silence lies,
When two full hearts look fondness, each to each,
Love's language, that I fain to thee, would teach,
And so, I love thee mute.
Thus, I have come to the conclusion sweet,
Nothing thou dost, can less than perfect be;
All beauties and all virtues, in thee meet;
Yet one thing more, I'd fain behold in thee,
A little love, a little love, for me.
THE good old man is gone!
He lies in his saintly rest,
And his labours all are done,
And the work, that he loved the best:
The good old man is gone,
But the dead, in the Lord, are blessed!
I stood in the holy aisle,
When he spake the solemn word,
That bound him, through care and toil,
The servant of the Lord:
And I saw, how the depths of his manly soul,
By that sacred vow, were stirred.
And nobly, his pledge he kept; For the truth, he stood up alone, And his spirit never slept,
And his march was ever, on!
Oh! deeply and long, shall his loss be wept; The brave old man, that's gone.
There were heralds of the cross,
By his bed of death, that stood,
And heard, how he counted all but loss,
For the gain of his Saviour's blood;
And patiently waited his Master's voice,
Let it call him, when it would.
The good old man is gone!
An apostle's chair is void,
There's dust, on his mitre, thrown,
And they've broken his pastoral rod!
And the fold of his love, he has left alone,
To account for its care, to God.
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