If I still hold closely to Him,

What hath He at last?

"Sorrow vanquish'd, labour ended,

Jordan past!"

If I ask Him to receive me,

Will He say me nay?

"Not till earth, and not till heaven

Pass away!"

Tending, following, keeping, struggling,
Is He sure to bless?

THE SPIRIT AND THE BRIDE SAY, COME."

WEET is the Spirit's strain

Breathed by soft pleadings inly
heard,

By all the heart's deep fountains stirr'd;
By conscience, and the written Word ;-
Come, wanderers, home again!

The Bride repeats the call;
By high thanksgiving, lowly prayer,
By days of rest, and fostering care,
By holy rites, that all may share;
She whispers, Come! to all.

Let him who hears say, Come!
If thou hast been sin's wretched slave;
If thou art risen from that grave;
Thy sleeping brethren seek to save,
And call the wanderers home.

And let all come, who thirst!
Freely for every child of woe
The streams of living waters flow;
And whosoever will, may go

Where healing fountains burst.

There drink and be at rest;

On Him who died for thee, believe;
The Spirit's quick'ning grace receive;
No more the God who seeks thee, grieve;
Be holy, and be blest!

Anstice.

66

THAT WHERE I AM, YE MAY BE ALSO."

HOU art gone up on high

To realms above the skies,

And round Thy throne unceasingly

The songs of praise arise.

But we are lingering here

With sin and care oppress'd;

Lord! send Thy promised Comforter,

And lead us to Thy rest!

Thou art gone up on high :
But Thou didst first come down,
Through earth's most bitter misery
To pass unto Thy crown:
And girt with griefs and fears
Our onward course must be;
But only let that path of tears
Lead us, at last, to Thee!

Thou art gone up on high:
But Thou shalt come again
With all the bright ones of the skv
Attendant in Thy train.

Lord! by Thy saving power

So make us live and die,

That we may stand, in that dread hour,

At Thy right hand on high.

J. D. Burns.

66 DESPISE NOT THE CHASTENING OF THE LORD, NOR FAINT WHEN THOU ART REBUKED OF HIM."

THOU, whose tender feet have trod
The thorny path of woe,

Forbid that I should slight the rod,

Or faint beneath the blow.

My spirit to its chastening stroke

I meekly would resign;
Nor murmur at the heaviest yoke
That tells me I am Thine.
Give me the spirit of Thy trust,

To suffer as a son,-
To say, though lying in the dust,
My Father's will be done!

I know that trial works for ends.
Too high for sense to trace;

That oft in dark attire, He sends
Some embassy of grace.

May none depart till I have gain'd

The blessing which it bears,
And learn, though late, I entertain'd
An angel unawares.

So shall I bless the hour that sent
The mercy of the rod,

And build an altar by the tent

Where I have met with God.

J. D. Burns.

"6 MY TIMES ARE IN THY HANDS."

ATHER, I know that all

Is portion'd out for me,

my

life

And the changes that are sure to come

I do not fear to see;

But I ask Thee for a present mind,

Intent on pleasing Thee.

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,
To meet the glad with joyful smiles
And wipe the weeping eyes;