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And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the rustic harmony,
Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody,
The music of a thankful heart.
In secret I have often pray'd,
And still the anxious tear would fall; But, on thy sacred altar laid,
The fire descends, and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again. Then dear to me the Sabbath
morn ; The village bells, the shepherd's voice; These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice. Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms; Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.
Is there a time when moments flow
a More lovelily than all beside ?
Įt is, of all the times below,
A Sabbath eve in summer tide.
0! then the setting sun smiles fair,
And all below, and all above,
One universal garb of love.
The life of grace, the death of sin, With nature's placid woods and streams,
Is peace without, and peace within. Delightful scene! a world at rest,
A God all love, no grief nor fear, A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast,
A smile unsullied by a tear. If heaven be ever felt below,
A scene so heavenly, sure, as this May cause a heart on earth to know
Some foretaste of celestial bliss.
Delightful hour! how soon will night
Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign; And morrow's quick returning light
Must call us to the world again. Yet will there dawn at last a day,
A SUN that never sets shall rise; Night will not veil his ceaseless ray,
The heavenly Sabbath never dies !
GOD OUR FATHER.
Is there a lone and dreary hour
The noontide blaze, the midnight scene,
God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform ;
And rides upon the storm.
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.
The clouds ye so much dread
In blessings on your head.
But trust him for his grace ;
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
DEATH OF A BELIEVER.
O THINK that, while you 're weeping here,
His hand a golden harp is stringing ;
His Savior's praise is singing!
While He, whose blood for man was shed,
A crown that fadeth never!
And think that, (in that awful day,
When darkness sun and moon is shading) The form that, ʼmidst its kindred clay, Your trembling hands prepare to lay,
Shall rise to life unfading !
Then weep no more for him, who's gone
Where sin and suffering ne'er shall enter; But on that great High Priest alone, Who can for guilt like ours atone,
Your own affections centre !
For thus, when round your lowly bier
Surviving friends are sadly bending,
Faith lightest pinions lending.
And thus, when to the silent tomb
Your lifeless dust like his is given, Like faith shall whisper, 'midst the gloom, That yet again, in youthful bloom,
That dust shall smile in heaven !
THE WORLD WE HAVE NOT SEEN.
THERE is a world we have not seen,
That time shall never dare destroy,