Lord, at Thy cross, with shame, I see How guilty I have been.

Meekly, with love divine,

Thy holy head is bent,

And streams of blood, for sins of mine, Flow where Thy side is rent.

Such grief did well atone

For all our sinful race;
But yet, O Christ! for me alone
The Father hid His face!

Oh, how this crimson tide

O'erwhelms my soul with shame! Within Thy bleeding wounds I hide : Wilt Thou, Lord, own my name?

Beneath this sacred flood

I bow my sinful soul:

Dear Saviour, let Thy precious blood O'er my defilement roll.

THE BURIAL OF CHRIST.

EASTER EVE.

"AND when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and taid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed. And there was Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre.” — MATT. xxvii. 59-61.

O

LORD JESUS, who by Thy rest in the grave, and descent into the world of departed spirits, hast sanctified the tomb, and opened the gate of paradise to all believers: grant unto us, we beseech Thee, that, being crucified with Thee to sin, we may rest in peace, and attain, with the whole army of the Redeemed, unto the glorious resurrection to life everlasting. Amen.

"COME and deck the grave with flowers,

That is now a blessed bed,

Where the truest Friend of ours

Stooped to rest His holy head;

For the Saviour, in it lying,

Did its grief and gloom destroy,
Took from death the dread of dying,
Gave to life its crown and joy."

JOHN S. B. MONSELL

VOL I

-15

THE BURIAL OF CHRIST.

EASTER EVE.

THE SEPULCHRE IS HOLDING.

Translated from the Latin. The People's Hymnal, Lond. 1867, No. IIL

THE

HE sepulchre is holding
To-day within its band

The Lord, Who holds creation
Within His strong right hand.

To-day a stone is hiding

From gaze of mortal eye
The Lord, whose glory hideth
The brightness of the sky.

The Life of all is sleeping,

But Hell is quaking sore;
And Adam bursts the fetters

Which prisoned him before.

All praise to Thee, Lord Jesu,
Whose Providence of love
Hath won for us, Thy people,
The Sabbath rest above.

To Christ, the King of glory,
Who in the tomb was laid,
To Father and to Spirit
Eternal laud be paid.

REST OF THE WEARY!

(So ruhest Du, O meine Ruh'.)

SALOMON FRANCK, 1716. Trsl. by Miss C. WINKWORTH, Lyra Germ., I. p. 85.

REST of the weary! Thou

Thyself art resting now,

Where lowly in Thy sepulchre Thou liest.
From out her deathly sleep,

My soul doth start, to weep,

So sad a wonder, that Thou Saviour diest!

Thy bitter anguish o'er,

To this dark tomb they bore

Thee, Life of life, -Thee, Lord of all creation! The hollow rocky cave

Must serve Thee for a grave,

Who wast Thyself the Rock of our Salvation!