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“ BEHOLD, HE PRAYETU !”

Sweet is the prayer, whose holy stream

In earnest pleading flows; Devotion dwells upon the theme,

And warm and warmer grows :

Faith grasps the blessings she desires ;

Hope points the upward gaze ; And love, celestial love inspires

The eloquence of praise.

But sweeter far the still small voice,

Heard by no human ear ; When God has made the heart rejoice,

And dried the bitter tear ;

Deep in the Bethel of the heart,

Unearthly feelings throb ;
They cannot into language start,

Their only vent, a sob.

No accents flow, no words ascend,

All utterance faileth there ; But sainted spirits comprehend,

And God accepts, the prayer.

“ THE PEACE OF GOD, WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDER

STANDING.”

The world with stones, instead of bread,
Our hungry souls has often fed ;
It promised health,-in one short hour
Perished the fair but fragile flower ;
It promised riches,—in a day
They made them wings and fled away ;
It promised friends,—all sought their own,
And left my widowed heart alone.

Lord ! with the barren service spent,
To Thee my suppliant knee I bent ;
And found in Thee a Father's grace,
His hand, His heart, His faithfulness;
The voice of peace, the smile of love,
The bread which feeds the saints above ;
And tasted in this world of woe,
A joy its children never know.

“ FOOLS MAKE A MOCK AT SIN!”

Who laughs at sin, laughs at his Maker's frowns ;

Laughs at the sword of vengeance o'er his head ; Laughs at the great Redeemer's tears and wounds,

Who, but for sin, bad never wept or bled.

Who laughs at sin, laughs at the numerous woes

Which have the guilty world so oft befel ; Laughs at the whole creation's groans and throes,

At all the spoils of death, and pains of hell.

Who laughs at sin, laughs at his own disease ;

Welcomes approaching torments with his smiles ; Dares at his soul's expense his fancy please,

Affronts his God, himself of bliss beguiles.

Who laughs at sin, sports at his guilt and shame ;

Laughs at the errors of his senseless mind : For so absurd a fool, there wants a name,

Expressive of a folly so refined.

“ HE KEEPETH THE FEET OF HIS SAINTS."

THRICE comfortable hope,

That calms the troubled breast ; My Father's hand prepares the cup,

And what He wills is best.

His skill infallible,

His providential grace,
His power and truth, that never fail,

Shall order all my ways.

The fancied powers of chance

And fortune, I defy;
My life's minutest circumstance

Is subject to His eye.

He hears the raven's call;

Nor can His children grieve, Nor can a worthless sparrow fall,

Without my Father's leave.

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