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O Saviour! gone to God's right hand!
Yet the same Saviour still, Graved on Thy heart is this lovely strand,
And every fragrant hill.
O give me, Lord, by this sacred wave,
Threefold Thy love divine,
Thy flock—both Thine and mine.
R. M. McCheyne
When brothers part for manhood's race,
To keep fond memory in her place,
'Tis true, bright hours together told,
Serene or solemn, gay or bold,
E'en round the death-bed of the good
And haunt us with no vexing mood,
But yet our craving spirits feel
And seek a surer pledge,—a seal
Who art thou that wouldst grave thy name
Look on this saint, and learn to frame
First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell
Till thou have scann'd His features well,
Such proof as they are sure to find
Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind,
Thus, potent with the spell of Heaven,
Entice him home to be forgiven,
Or, if before thee in the race,
Urge him with thine advancing tread,
Till, like twin stars, with even pace,
No fading frail memorial give
But wreaths of hope for ay to live,
That so, before the judgment seat,
Not unremember'd ye may meet
When Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
To hear her weeping by his grave?
Where wert thou, Brother, those four days?
There lives no record of reply,
Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise.
From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown'd
The purple brows of Olivet.
Behold a man raised up by Christ!
The rest remaineth unreveal'd;
He told it not; or something seal'd The lips of that Evangelist.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
And He that brought him back is there.
Then one deep love doth supersede
And rests upon the .Life indeed.
All subtle thought, all curious fears,
With costly spikenard and with tears.
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Or is this blessedness like theirs?
THE WEDDING FEAST
Steadfast for ever!
Bitter tears shedding;
Joy for the wedding!
Open the golden doors;
Through the high portal
Wide from the centre ;—
Hither must enter!
Light up the palace halls,
From roof-tree to basement, Bid the warm festal glow,
Flood every casement: Chant ye the bridal song
Solemn and holy, Waking to Paradise
Souls that lie lowly. Out of old battle-fields
No man remembers; Out of still village yards
And dank charnel-chambers,
Under far waters
Where sleep the martyrs.
Dives and Lazarus
One with the other;
Foeman and brother,
Braving death's shadow,
As flower in the meadow :—
Out of the million haunts
Where dead men lie idle, Out of life's thousand ways :—
Call to the bridal: Open the golden doors
Wide from the centre! For they that are ready
To glory shall enter!
W. E. Littlewood