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That eye had seen in glorious trance

Mysterious things to be,
Wild visions of impending doom

On heaven, and earth, and sea.

His pen had writ of times to come,

Of dearer times by-gone ; He was the fisher's chosen son,

The Lord's beloved St. John.

And he had drank his Master's cup

So long, so patiently, And now he lingered there, the last,

Till Christ should set him free.

I wish I'd lived in those old times,

And been a Grecian child, To hear that old man's blessing kind,

To meet him when he smiled.

To hear the words of holy love

That ever from his lips
Fell gentle, as the evening dew

The thirsty blossom sips.

But love endureth through all age;

Nor time, nor distance drear, Divide the living and the dead

Of Christ's communion dear.

For all His saints in Him are one ;

The exile o'er the sea, —
The child within his English home,–

The struggling and the free.

The good Saint John hath rest at last;

He wears the promised crown ; And still, by the dear Church he watched,

His words are handed down.

And we shall meet him, not as once,

On that far island shore,
But where apostles, martyrs, saints,

Have peace for evermore.


My soul, amid this stormy world,

Is like some flutter'd dove ;
And fain would be as swift of wing,

To flee to Him I love.

The cords that bound my heart to earth

Are broken by His hand : Before His cross I found myself,

A stranger in the land.

That visage marr’d, those sorrows deep,

The vinegar and gall,
Were Jesus' golden chains of love

His captive to enthral!

My heart is with Him on His throne,

And ill can brook delay ;
Each moment list'ning for the voice,-

“ Rise up, and come away.”

With hope deferr'd, oft sick and faint,

“Why tarries He?” I cry; And should my Saviour chide my haste

Sure I could make reply.

May not an exile, Lord, desire,

His own sweet land to see ? May not a captive seek release,

A pris’ner to be free ?

A child, when far away, may long

For home and kindred dear :
And she that waits her absent Lord

May sigh till He appear.

I would, my Lord and Saviour, know,

That which no measure knows; Would search the mystery of Thy love,

The depth of all Thy woes.

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Why did the paschal beast

Of old for Israel bleed ?
To be their safe-guard and their feast,

To sprinkle and to feed.

Dwell not, my searching soul,

On ritual shadows now ;
Christ is the Lamb all pure and whole,

The ransom'd first-born thou.

Now get thy house within,

Slay, eat, anoint thy door ;
The dread avenger comes not in

To smite, but passeth o'er.

He looks and calls from high,

Art thou to die or live ?
He hears the posts and lintels cry

Forgive, forgive, forgive !

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