Is the cup Satan. My soul forecasts The shadows of the future. Of vengeance sweet? Comrades, it shall be fill'd Full and forever to the cruel brim. Messiah hath espoused a Bride on earth: But this chaste matron, nurtured at the Cross, Only by His permission. Then beware, All equal are within the church's gate. Christ purged His temple, so must thou thy heart. All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together To cozen thec. Look to thy actions well: 430. CHURCH, Death in the. I pass the churches through, 431. CHURCH, A Fashionable. Look on this edifice of marble made- What is it? Surely not a gay Exchange, Where velvet cushions, exquisitely nice, Press'd by the polish'd preacher's dainty hands, Hold a large volume clasp'd by golden bands. Park Benjamin. 432. CHURCH, Gates of the. Thou, too, O Church! which here we see, No easy task hath builded thee. Long did the chisels ring around! 433. CHURCH a Light-house. Casts o'er the flood its radiant eye, Firm amidst ocean's heaviest shock, Serene beneath the stormiest sky. Though winds and waters rage and foam, Though darkness lowers like Egypt's night, Here peace and safety find a home; In this small Goshen there is light. The seaman's friend, it shines from far, It warns to shun the breakers near, High in mid-heaven, o'er land and sea, Christ's church holds forth to age and youth A beacon and a sanctuary. Not many rich or noble called, Not many great or wise; For not like kingdoms of the world Thy holy Church, O God! They whom God makes His kings and priests Though earthquake shocks are threatening Are poor in human eyes. A little flock! 'Tis well, 'tis well; And now 'tis still the same. But the chief Shepherd comes at length, Her feeble days are o'er, No more a handful in the earth, A little flock no more. No more a lily among thorns; But countless as the stars of heaven, Then entering the eternal halls, In robes of victory, That mighty multitude shall keep Unfading palms they bear aloft, Horatius Bonar. 437. CHURCH, Spread of the. The Banyan of the Indian isle Spreads deeply down its massive root, And spreads its branching life abroad, And bends to earth with scarlet fruit; But when the branches reach the ground, They firmly plant themselves again: They rise and spread and droop and root, An ever-green and endless chain. And so the Church of Jesus Christ, Has sent its sheltering arms abroad; The sacred Banyan still shall spread, Its leaves shall for their healing be: The blood that crimsoned Calvary. her, And tempests are abroad; Unshaken as eternal hills, A mountain that shall fill the earth, 439 CHURCH, Temple of the. A. C. Coxe. And whence, then, came these goodly stones 'twas Israel's pride to raise, The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days; In purity and strength erect, in radiant splendor bright, Sparkling with golden beams of noon, or silver smiles of night? From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought, In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains wrought; There rung the hammer's heavy stroke among the echoing rocks, There chased the chisel's keen, sharp edge, the rude, unshapen blocks. Thence polished, perfected, complete, each fitted to its place, For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base, They bore them o'er the waves that rolled their billowy swell between The shores of Tyre's imperial pride and Judah's hills of green. With gradual toil the work went on, through days and months and years, Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen tears; And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp it rose, Fit dwelling for the God of Peace! a temple of repose! ་། Of souls elect; their Zion there—that world of light and bliss; Their Lebanon-the place of toil—of previous moulding this. From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim He hews The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth Him to choose: Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine, Moulded beneath His patient hand in purity divine. Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek; See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened cheek: Home to the place His grace designed that chosen soul to fill, In the bright temple of the saved,." upon His holy hill;" Home to the noiselessness, the peace of those sweet shrines above, Whose stones shall never be displaced-set in redeeming love. Lord, chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away, Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array; And thus, Thine image on us stamped, transport us to the shore, Where not a stroke was ever felt, for none is needed more. 440. CHURCH, Unity of the. One family, we dwell in Him, One Church above, beneath, To His command we bow: Ten thousand to their endless home With wishful looks we stand, Our old companions in distress Even now by faith we join our hands With those that went before, To find with thee His throne and home; Nor leave thee in thy widowhood, Of earth around and hell below; Is the Bridegroom absent still? Walk thou in the heavenly road. Of the flesh abhor each spot, Be time's vanities forgot. And this earth be clean again? Of His true and holy word! Mockery of His holy crown, Scorn of His uplifted sword? This the burden of thy cry: When shall end the age of wrong, Error, pain, misrule, and lust, Righteous King and Lord, how long? Who is she that says in pride, Of the world's Christ-hating King,— Of her vain imagining; She the true chaste spouse who mocks,- Who the heavenly Bridegroom loathes; Yet her day is nigh at hand, From the white, palm-bearing band! flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the strawbuilt shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er un roll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. |