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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,

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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,
Jehovah sat; his thunders roll'd,

And glory sparkled round.

His flowing train, of glittering white,

The spacious temple fill'd;
The angels, dazzled at the sight,

With wings their faces veil'd.

Around the throne, in burning row,

The six-wing'd seraphs stood;
While millions, flying to and fro,

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."



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


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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!"



God of my life, to thee I call,
Afflicted at thy feet I fall,
When the great water-floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fail.

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.

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