« AnteriorContinuar »
Soldier, rest—but not for thee
Spreads the world her downy pillow; On the rock thy couch must be,
While around thee chafes the billow : Thine must be a watchful sleep,
Wearier than another's waking ; Such a charge as thou dost keep Brooks no moment of forsaking.
Sleep, as on the battle-field,
Girded-grasping sword and shield : Those thou canst not name or number, Steal upon thy broken slumber.
Soldier, rise—the war is done :
Lo, the hosts of hell are flying, 'Twas thy Lord the battle won;
Jesus vanquished them by dying. Pass the stream-before thee lies
All the conquered land of glory; Hark!—what songs of rapture rise,
These proclaim the victor's story,
Soldier, lay thy weapons down,
Quit the sword, and take the crown; Triumph! all thy foes are banished, Death is slain, and earth has vanished.
High on a throne of burnish'd gold,
With rays of Godhead crown'd,
And glory sparkled round.
His flowing train, of glittering white,
The spacious temple fill'd;
With wings their faces veil'd.
Around the throne, in burning row,
The six-wing'd seraphs stood;
Tun'd all their harps to God.
" Thrice holy, holy Lord," they cry,
6. The God of Sabaoth thou ; Thy glory fills the worlds on high,
And fills the world below."
DEATH OF A YOUNG CHRISTIAN.
O GRIEVE not for him with the wildness of
sorrow, As those who in hopeless despondency
weep: From God's holy word consolation we bor
row, For souls who in Jesus confidingly sleep. . Lament not your lov'd one, but triumph the
rather To think of the promise, the pray’r of the
Lamb; “Your joy shall be full,” and “I will, oh,
my Father! That those whom thou giv'st me may be where I am."
Nay, weep not for him for the flower of the
morning So dear to your bosom, so fair in your eyes ; But weep for the souls unbelievingly scorn
ing The counsel and truth of the “God only
He came to the cross when his young cheek
was blooming, And rais'd to the Lord the bright beam of
his eye ;
And when o'er its beauty death's darkness
was glooming, The cross did uphold him, the Saviour was
I saw the black pall o'er his relics extended, I wept, but they were not the tear-drops
of woe: The pray'r of my soul that in fervour as
cended, Was, “Lord, when thou callest, like him
may I go!"
TRUST IN GOD.
God of my life, to thee I call,
Friend of the friendless and the faint ! Where shall I lodge my deep complaint ? Where but with thee, whose open door Invites the helpless and the poor!
Did ever mourner plead with thee, And thou refuse that mourner's plea ? Does not the word still fix'd remain, That none shall seek thy face in vain ?
That were a grief I could not bear, Didst thou not hear and answer pray'r; But a prayer-hearing, answ'ring God, Supports me under ev'ry load.