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‘Our day of grace is sunk in night, our time of mercy spent,

For heavy was my children’s crime, and strange their punishment;

Yet gaze not idly on our fall, but, sinner, warned be,

Who spared not his chosen seed may send his wrath on thee.

“Our day of grace is sunk in night, thy noon is in its prime ; O, turn and seek thy Saviour's face in this accepted time. So,Centile,may Jerusalem a lesson prove to thee, And in the new Jerusalem thy home for ever be.’


‘Who yonder on the desert heath,
Complains in feeble tone *
—“A pilgrim in the vale of death,
Faint, bleeding and alone.”

‘How cam'st thou to this dismal strand
Of danger, grief, and shame *
—“From blessed Sion's holy land,
By folly led, I came.’

“What ruffian hand hath stript thee bare :
Whose fury laid thee low 2°
—‘Sin for my footsteps twined her snare,
And death has dealt the blow.”

‘Can art no medicine for thy wound,
Nor nature strength supply?”
—“They saw me bleeding on the ground,
And passed in silence by.”

“But, sufferer, is no comfort near
Thy terrors to remove o'
—“There is to whom my soul was dear,
But I have scorned his love.”

“What if his hand were nigh to save
From endless death thy days *

— The soul he ransomed from the grave Should live but to his praise.”

“Rise then, O rise, his health embrace,
With heavenly strength renewed;

And such as is thy Saviour's grace,
Such be thy gratitude.”


Lo, the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to nature's lesson given
By the blessed birds of Heaven.
Every bush and tufted tree o
Warbles sweet philosophy;
“Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow :
God provideth for the morrow,

“Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air :
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily.
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow.

‘One there lives whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny:
One there lives, who Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall:
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow ;
God provideth for the morrow.”


WAKE not, O mother, sounds of lamentation;
Weep not, O widow, weep not hopelessly:

Strong is his arm, the bringer of salvation,
Strong is the word of God to succor thee.

Bear forth the cold corpse slowly,slowly bear him: Hide his pale features with the sable pall:

Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him: Widowed and childless, she has lost her all.

Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping 2 Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed 2 “Set down the bier—he is not dead, but sleeping. ‘Young man, arise !”—He spake, and wa" obeyed.

Change, then, O sad one, grief to exultation,
Worship and fall before Messiah’s knee.

Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation,
Strong was the word of God to succor thee.

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