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For God's new Israel, sunk as low,

Yet flourishing to sight as fair,
As Sion in her height of pride,
With queens for handmaids at her side,

With kings her nursing-fathers, throned high,
And compass’d with the world's too tempting blazonry.

'Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth,

Nor torrid summer's sickly smile;
The flashing billows of the south

Break not upon so lone an isle,
But thou, rich vine, art grafted there,
The fruit of death or life to bear,

Yielding a surer witness every day,
To thine Almighty Author and his stedfast sway.

Oh grief to think, that grapes of gall

Should cluster round thine healthiest shoot!
God's herald prove a heartless thrall,

Who, if he dar'd, would fain be mute !
Even such is this bad world we see,
Which, self-condemnd in owning Thee,

Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take,
For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason's sake.

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What do we then ? if far and wide

Men kneel to Christ, the pure and meek, Yet rage with passion, swell with pride,

Have we not still our faith to seek ? Nay—but in stedfast humbleness Kneel on to Him, who loves to bless

The prayer that waits for Him; and trembling strive To keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive.

Dark frown'd the future even on him,

The loving and beloved Seer,
What time he saw, through shadows dim,

The boundary of th' eternal year;
He only of the sons of men
Nam'd to be heir of glory then.

Else had it bruis'd too sore his tender heart
To see God's ransom'd world in wrath and flame

depart.

Then look no more: or closer watch

Thy course in Earth's bewildering ways, For every glimpse thine eye can catch

Of what shall be in those dread days :

8 Dan. xii. 13. See Bp. Kenn's Sermon on the character of Daniel.

So when th’ Archangel's word is spoken,
And Death's deep trance for ever broken,

In mercy thou may'st feel the heavenly hand, And in thy lot unharm'd before thy Saviour stand".

GOOD FRIDAY.

He is despised and rejected of men.

Isaiah liii. 3.

Is it not strange, the darkest hour

That ever dawn'd on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power

For comfort, than an angel's mirth ? That to the Cross the mourner's

eye

should turn Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun

Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run,

66 Who died to heal, is ris'n to save.” Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends.

h Dap. xii. 13. Thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days.

Yet so it is : for duly there

The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till temper'd by the Saviour's prayer;

And with the Saviour's life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprison'd martyr's deathbed calm.

All turn to sweet-but most of all

That bitterest to the lip of pride,
When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,

Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,
Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear
When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

Then like a long-forgotten strain

Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain

Of Jesus suffering shame and scorn, As in all lowly hearts he suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His pierced hands in vain would hide

His face from rude reproachful gaze, His ears are open to abide

The wildest storm the tongue can raise,

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He who with one rough word', some early day,
Their idol world and them shall

sweep

for

aye away.

But we by Fancy may assuage

The festering sore by Fancy made,
Down in some lonely hermitage

Like wounded pilgrims safely laid.
Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress'd,
That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

O shame beyond the bitterest thought

That evil spirit ever fram’d,
That sinners know what Jesus wrought,

Yet feel their haughty hearts untam’d-
That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross,
Should wince and fret at this world's little loss.

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry,

Let not thy blood on earth be spentLo, at thy feet I fainting lie,

Mine eyes upon thy wounds are bent, Upon thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies.

i Wisdom of Solomon xii. 9.

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