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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,
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,
A golden harp for me:
'Tis strung and tuned for endless years,
And form'd by power divine,
No other name but Thine.
CHRIST'S CHURCH UNIVERSAL
"My Name shall be great among the Gentiles"
Yes, so it was ere Jesus came;
Blazed up and died away;
That own'd the festal day.
One only border
Heaven's light and order.
But now to the revolving sphere
No waste so dark and lone,
In light beneath the throne.
From eve to morning,
Praise and adorning.
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,
How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And all for love, and nothing for reward:
O, why should heavenly God to man have such regard?
"Be ye doers of the Word, and not hearers only"
Going home from the House of God,
Little Christel so thoughtfully trod,
"Even the youngest, humblest child,
"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
"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,
"Perhaps he will carry my prayer to God,
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,
One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove,
Poor baby beat the sail, and cried,
But little Christel knelt down by its side,
Then babe was pleased, and the little girl
Thinking, happy windmill, that has but to whirl,
No thought of herself was in her head,
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,
And the gurgling water seemed to say, "Look!
"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!"