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The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in His day; And there would I, as vile as he,

Wash all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb! Thy precious Blood

Shall never lose its power,
Till all the ransom'd church of God

Be saved, to sin no more.

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply, Redeeming love has been my theme,

And shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler, sweeter song

I'll sing Thy power to save, When this poor lisping, stammering tongue

Lies silent in the grave.

Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared,

Unworthy though I be,
For me a blood-bought free reward,

A golden harp for me:

'Tis strung and tuned for endless years,

And form'd by power divine,
To sound in God the Father's ears,

No other name but Thine.

W. Cowper



"My Name shall be great among the Gentiles"

Yes, so it was ere Jesus came;
Alternate then His altar flame

Blazed up and died away;
And Silence took her turn with song,
And Solitude with the fair throng

That own'd the festal day.
For in Earth's daily circuit then

One only border
Reflected to the seraph's ken

Heaven's light and order.

But now to the revolving sphere
We point, and say, no desert here,

No waste so dark and lone,
But to the hour of sacrifice
Comes daily in its turn, and lies

In light beneath the throne.
Each point of time, from morn to eve,

From eve to morning,
The shrine doth from the spouse receive

Praise and adorning.

J. Keble


THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS And is there care in Heaven, and is there love

In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move?

There is—else much more wretched were the case

Of men than beasts. But, 0, the exceeding grace Of highest God that loves His creatures so,

And all His works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed Angels He sends to and fro
To serve to wicked man, to serve His wicked foe.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us who comfort want;

How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant.

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant,

And all for love, and nothing for reward:

O, why should heavenly God to man have such regard?

E. Spenser



"Be ye doers of the Word, and not hearers only"


Going home from the House of God,
The flower at her foot, and the sun overhead,

Little Christel so thoughtfully trod,
Pondering what the preacher had said.

"Even the youngest, humblest child,
Something may do to please the Lord."

"Now what," thought she, and half sadly smiled, "Can I, so little and poor, afford?"

"Never, never, a day should pass

Without some kindness, kindly shown."

Little Christel looked down at the grass
Rising like incense before the throne.

"Well, a day is before me now,

Yet what," thought she, " can I do if I try? If an angel of God should show me how,

But silly am I, and the hours they fly."

Then a lark sprang singing up from the sod,
And Christel thought, as he rose to the blue,

"Perhaps he will carry my prayer to God,
But who would have thought the little lark

Ii. Now she entered the village street,

With book in hand, and face demure, And soon she came, with sober feet,

To a crying babe at a cottage door.

The child had a windmill that would not move,
It pufFd with its round red cheeks in vain,

One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove,
And baby's breath could not stir it again.

Poor baby beat the sail, and cried,
While no one came from the cottage door;

But little Christel knelt down by its side,
And set the windmill going once more.

Then babe was pleased, and the little girl
Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow;

Thinking, happy windmill, that has but to whirl,
To please the pretty young creature so.


No thought of herself was in her head,
As she pass'd out at the end of the street,

And came to a rose-tree, tall and red,

Drooping and faint with the summer heat.

She ran to a brook that was flowing by;

She made of her two hands a nice round cup, And wash'd the roots of the rose-tree high,

Till it lifted its languid blossoms up.

"O happy brook!" thought little Christel,

"You have done some good this summer's day,

You have made the flower look fresh and well;" Then she rose, and went on her way.


But she saw, as she walk'd by the side of the brook,
Some great rough stones that troubled its course,

And the gurgling water seemed to say, "Look!
I struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse!

"How these stones obstruct my road!

How I wish they were off, and gone; Then I could flow, as once I flow'd,

Singing in silvery undertone."

Then little Christel, as light as a bird,

Put off the shoes from her young white feet;

She moves two stones, she comes to the third, The brook already sings, "Thanks to you, sweet!"

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