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Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes :
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paus’d and own'd you good; His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd.
Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
“ And Heaven thy morn will bless.”
SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER
I desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory. Ephesians iii. 13.
WISH not, dear friends, my pain away
Wish me a wise and thankful heart,
Nor from His lov'd correction start.
The dearest offering He can crave
His portion in our souls to prove,
The only Son of His dear love?
But we, like vex'd unquiet sprights,
Will still be hovering o'er the tomb,
Nor sweetly take a sinner's doom.
In Life's long sickness evermore
Our thoughts are tossing to and fro: We change our posture o'er and o'er,
But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.
Were it not better to lie still,
Let Him strike home and bless the rod, Never so safe as when our will
Yields undiscern'd by all but God ?
Thy precious things, whate'er they be
That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain, Look to the Cross, and thou shalt see
How thou may'st turn them all to gain.
Lovest thou praise ? the Cross is shame :
Or ease ? the Cross is bitter grief: More pangs than tongue or heart can frame
Were suffer'd there without relief.
We of that altar would partake,
But cannot quit the cost-no throne Is ours, to leave for Thy dear sake
We cannot do as Thou hast done.
We cannot part with Heaven for Thee
Yet guide us in thy track of love: Let us gaze on where light should be,
Though not a beam the clouds remove.
So wanderers ever fond and true
Look homeward through the evening sky, Without a streak of heaven's soft blue
To aid Affection's dreaming eye.
The wanderer seeks his native bower,
And we will look and long for Thee, And thank thee for each trying hour,
Wishing, not struggling, to be free.
SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER
Every man of the house of Israel that setteth up his idols in his heart, and putteth the stumbling-block of his iniquity before his face, and cometh to the Prophet, I the Lord will answer bin according to the multitude of his idols. Ezeiel xiy. 4.
STATELY thy walls, and holy are the prayers,
Which day and night before thine altars rise ; Not statelier, towering o'er her marble stairs,
Flash'd Sion's gilded dome to summer skies, Not holier, while around him angels bow'd, From Aaron's censer steam'd the spicy cloud,
Before the mercy-seat. O mother dear,
Wilt thou forgive thy son one boding sigh? Forgive, if round thy towers he walk in fear,
And tell thy jewels o'er with jealous eye?