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" THOUGH HE SHOULD SLAY ME, YET WILL I TRUST

IN HIM.”

Faith, like a simple, unsuspecting child,

Serenely resting on its mother's arm,
Reposing every care upon her God,

Sleeps on His bosom, and expects no harm :

Receives with joy the promises He makes,

Nor questions of His purpose or His power ;
She does not doubting ask, “ Can this be so ?”

The Lord hath said it, and there needs no more.

However deep be the mysterious word,

However dark, she disbelieves it not ;
Where Reason would examine, Faith obeys,

And “ It is written,” answers every doubt.

In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,

Conscience repeats her tale of misery ;
And powers infernal, wakeful to destroy,

Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.

As evening's pale and solitary star

But brightens while the darkness gathers round; So Faith, unmoved amidst surrounding storms,

Is fairest seen in darkness most profound.

“ NEVERTHELESS, NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS THOU WILT.”

GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,

That it should know no ill ;
We learn to kiss the chastening rod,

And feel its sharpness still.

But how unlike the Christian's tears,

To those the world must shed !
His sighs are tranquil and resigned

As the heart from which they sped.

The saint may be compelled to meet

Misfortune's saddest blow;
His bosom is alive to feel

The keenest pang of woe :

But, ever as the wound is given,

There is a hand unseen,
Hasting to wipe away the scar,

And hide where it has been.

The Christian would not have his lot

Be other than it is ;
For, while his Father rules the world,

He knows that world is his.

He knows that He who gave the best,,

Will give him all beside ;
Assured each seeming good he asks

Is evil, if denied.

When clouds or sorrow gather round,

His bosom owns no fear ;
He knows, where'er his portion be,

His God will still be there.

And when the threatened storm has burst,

Whate'er the trial be,
Something yet whispers him within,

• Be still, for it is He !'

Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink

From the afflictive stroke;
But faith disclaims the hasty plaint

Impatient nature spoke.

His grateful bosom quickly learns

Its sorrows to disown ;
Yields to His pleasure, and forgets

The choice was not his own.

“ SEEING, THEN, THAT ALL THESE THINGS SHALL BE

DISSOLVED.”

Ask the bird that soars on high,
Midway between earth and sky,
What he sees, when he is there,
Of the world's receding sphere.

He could teach, if he might say,
Heavenward as he bends his way,
How the wide world lessens fast
In the growing distance lost.

Lesser objects lost to view,
Great ones are but little now
All that once were bright and fair,
Lose their tints and disappear.

Doubt yon, then, why they who rise
Near and nearer to the skies,
See on earth's diminished sphere,
Little that is worth their care ?

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