"THE DEAD IN CHRIST SHALL RISE FIRST." YES, it must moulder in the grave, This moving heart, this breathing breast, And flowers shall grow, and grass shall wave, Where these cold limbs were laid to rest. And years on years shall circle round, A glorious troop shall fill the skies, With Jesus on his judgment throne; Then, first, the dead in Christ shall rise, And leave the wicked dead-alone. Think, dearest child, with what suspense If all her children, rising thence, Come forth, with Christ the Lord to be! Is there a grave that will not rend? How will her eyes in anguish send Had she not told him of that day? Yes, but he heard and heeded not; Till life, and soul, and hope were gone! Both in one grave, or side by side, They slept, while ages rolled away; With one last sigh she takes her flight, He starts, unwilling, from the tomb ! "Lord! Lord!" the trembling sinner cries, Let me, O let me, enter too!" "Depart," the righteous Judge replies, 66 Rebel for thee I never knew!" J. TAYLOR. THE LAPLANDER. WITH blue cold nose, and wrinkled brow, From Lapland's woods and hills of frost, By the rapid rein-deer cross'd; Where tapering grows the gloomy fir, And the stunted juniper; Where the wild hare and the crow Whiten in surrounding snow; Where the shivering huntsmen tear Prowl among the lonely rocks; HAPPY CHILDHOOD. OH joyous dawn of childhood! The green earth, with its wild wood The stars, night's reign enhancing, With a ray so brightly glancing, As the flash from childhood's eye. But life will soon be waning, And set in death's deep gloom; WHAT IS LIFE? LORD, what is life ?—Tis like a flower, That blossoms, and is gone! We see it flourish for an hour, With all its beauty on; But death comes like a wintry day, And sweeps the pretty flower away. LORD, what is life ?-"Tis like the bow Six thousand years have passed away And yet this short, uncertain space, That heaven, that lasting dwelling place, The words of sorrow and of bliss We disregard, compared with this! LORD, what is life?—If spent with thee When life, and death itself, are past. J. TAYLOR. THE CHURCH TRIUMPHANT. WHO are these around the throne, 66 Singing to their harps of gold, Glory to our God alone, God whose love can ne'er be told ?" Who are these in purest white, Shining brighter than the sun, Chanting round the Lord of light, "Jesus died; the victory 's won ?" These are they who once below These are they, with contrite grief, For the Lamb their ransom paid. "Tis THE LORD THEIR RIGHTEOUSNESS, C |