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“ THE DEAD IN CHRIST SHALL RISE
Yes, it must moulder in the grave,
This moving heart, this breathing breast,
And years on years shall circle round,
Till millions more have died like me : At length shall come the trumpet's sound,
All ears shall hear! all eyes shall see !
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
Thy mother risen, shall watch to see If all her children, rising thence,
Come forth, with Christ the Lord to be!
Is there a grave that will not rend ?
A dear one left, who rises not? How will her eyes in anguish send
Their lingering looks to that dear spot !
Had she not told him of that day?
Had she not tried his heart to win ? Had she not taught his lips to pray ?
Had she not warned his soul of sin ?
Yes, but he heard and heeded not;
Temptation drew him slowly on; The words of warning were forgot,
Till life, and soul, and hope were gone!
Both in one grave, or side by side,
They slept, while ages rolled away ; But now,- now, they must divide,
He, cannot come,-she, would not stay!
With one last sigh she takes her flight,
And leaves him to his endless doom ! Behold !-now bursting into light,
He starts, unwilling, from the tomb !
“Lord ! Lord !" the trembling sinner cries,
Let me, O let me, enter too !" Depart,” the righteous Judge replies, · Rebel! for thee I never knew !"
With blue cold nose, and wrinkled brow,
Where the shivering huntsmen tear
Oh joyous dawn of childhood !
Thou art beautiful to see ;
Hath no flower so sweet as thee.
The stars, night's reign enhancing,
Beam not within the sky, With a ray so brightly glancing, As the flash from childhood's
But life will soon be waning,
And set in death's deep gloom ; Seek, seek, a Saviour reigning,
To light thee from the tomb.
WHAT IS LIFE?
LORD, what is life?—'Tis like a flower,
That blossoms, and is gone!
With all its beauty on ;
LORD, what is life ?—'Tis like the bow
That glistens in the sky:
But while we look, they die.
Six thousand years have passed away
Since living men began.
Have spent their little span;
And yet this short, uncertain space,
So foolishly we prize,
Seems nothing in our eyes !
LORD, what is life?-If spent with thee
In duty, praise, and prayer,
We need but little care ;
THE CHURCH TRIUMPHANT.
Who are these around the throne,
Singing to their harps of gold,
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
Felt the dire effects of sin, Born to share in human woe,
Guilty, helpless, and unclean.
These are they, with contrite grief,
Who to Jesu's cross have fled ; Found a sweet, secure relief,
For the Lamb their ransom paid.
'Tis THE LORD THEIR RIGHTEOUSNESS,
'Tis Immanuel's streaming blood, Bought their pardon, seal'd their peace,
Made them kings and priests to God !