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I with thoughts of thee would seek
To sanctify the closing week.

Resting from His work, the Lord
Spake to-day the hallowing word;
And, His wondrous labours done,
Now the everlasting Son
Gave to heaven and earth the sign
Of a wonder more divine.

Resting from His work to-day,
In the tomb the Saviour lay,
His sacred form from head to feet
Swathed in the winding sheet,
Lying in the rock alone,
Hid beneath the sealed stone.

All the seventh day long I ween
Mournful watch'd the Magdalene,
Rising early, resting late,
By the sepulchre to wait,
In the holy garden glade
Where her buried Lord was laid.

So with Thee till life shall end
I would solemn vigil spend;
Let me hew Thee, Lord, a shrine
In this rocky heart of mine,
Where in pure embalmed cell
None but Thou may'st ever dwell.

Myrrh and spices I will bring,
My poor affection's offering,

Close the door from sight and sound
Of the busy world around,
And in patient watch remain
Till my Lord appear again.

Then, the new creation done,
Shall be Thy endless rest begun;
Jesu, keep me safe from sin,
That I with them may enter in,
And danger past, and toil at end,
To Thy resting place ascend.

T. Whitehead



While snows, even from the mild south-west,

Come blinding o'er all day,
What kindlier home, what safer nest

For flower or fragrant spray,
Than underneath some cottage roof,

Where fires are bright within,
And fretting cares scowl far aloof,

And doors are closed on sin?

The scarlet tufts so cheerily

Look out upon the snow,
But gayer smiles the maiden eye

Whose garden care they know.
The buds that in that nook are born,

Through the dark howling day
Old winter's spite they laugh to scorn :—

Who is so safe as they?

Nay, look again, beside the hearth

The lowly cradle mark,
Where weary with his ten hours' mirth

Sleeps in his own warm ark
A bright-haired babe, with arm uprais'd

As though the slumberous dew Stole o'er him, while in faith he gazed

Upon his guardian true.

Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes

Deform the quiet bower;
They may not mar the deep repose

Of that immortal flower.
Though only broken hearts be found

To watch his cradle by,
No blight is on his slumbers sound,

No touch of harmful eye.

So gently slumberM on the wave

The new-born seer of old, Ordained the chosen tribes to save;

Nor deem'd how darkly roll'd
The waters by his rushy bark,

Perchance e'en now defiled
With infant's blood for Israel's sake,

Blood of some priestly child.

What recks he of his mother's tears,

His sister's boding sigh?
The whispering reeds are all he hears,

And Nile, soft weltering nigh,
Sings him to sleep, but he will wake,

And o'er the haughty flood
Wave his stern rod; and lo! a lake,

A restless sea of blood!

Soon shall a mightier flood thy call

And outstretch'd rod obey;
To right and left the watery wall

From Israel shrinks away.
Such honour wins the faith that gave

Thee, and thy sweetest boon
Of infant charms to the rude wave,

In the third joyous moon.

Hail, chosen type and image true

Of Jesus on the sea!
In slumber and in glory too

Shadow'd of old by Thee—
Save that in calmness thou didst sleep

The summer stream beside; He on a wider wilder deep,

Where boding night-winds sigh'd.

Sigh'd when at eve He laid Him down,

But with a sound like flame
At midnight from the mountain's crown

Upon His slumbers came.
Lo, how they watch, till He awake,

Around His rude low bed;
How wistful count the waves that break

So near His sacred head.

O, faithless! know ye not of old

How in the western bay,
When dark and vast the billows roll'd,

A prophet slumbering lay?
The surges smote the keel as fast

As thunderbolts from heaven,
Himself into the wave he cast,

And hope and life were given.

Behold a mightier far is here;

Nor will He spare to leap,
For the soul's sake He loves so dear,

Into a wilder deep.
E'en now He dreams of Calvary;

Soon will He wake, and say
The words of peace and might: Do ye

His hour in calmness stay.

J. Keble



He stopp'd at last
And a mild look of sacred pity cast
Down on the sinful land where he was sent
T' inflict the tardy punishment.

"Ah ! yet," said he, "yet, stubborn king, repent,

Whilst thus unarm'd I stand, Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live: Who would, alas! believe That it for man," said he, "So hard to be forgiven should be, And yet for God so easy to forgive!"

Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, And as he march'd the sacred firstborn strook

Of every womb : none did he spare, None, from the meanest beast to Pharaoh's purple heir.

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