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That eye had seen in glorious trance
Mysterious things to be,
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
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 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,
Have peace for evermore.
" on! THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE !”
My soul, amid this stormy world,
Is like some flutter'd dove ;
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,
His captive to enthral!
My heart is with Him on His throne,
And ill can brook delay ;
“ 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 :
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.
“CHRIST OUR PASSOVER IS SACRIFICED FOR US."
Why did the paschal beast
Of old for Israel bleed ?
To sprinkle and to feed.
Dwell not, my searching soul,
On ritual shadows now ;
The ransom'd first-born thou.
Now get thy house within,
Slay, eat, anoint thy door ;
To smite, but passeth o'er.
He looks and calls from high,
Art thou to die or live ?
Forgive, forgive, forgive !