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.

"OH! THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE!"

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."

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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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CHRIST OUR PASSOVER IS SACRIFICED FOR US."

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!

I hear the accuser roar

Of ills that I have done;

I know them well, and thousands more, Jehovah findeth none.

Sin, Satan, death, press near,
To harass and appal;

Let but my Advocate appear,
Backward they go, and fall.

Before, behind, around,

They set their fierce array,

To fight and force me from my ground, Along Emmanuel's way.

I meet them face to face,

Through Jesus' conquest blest; March in the triumph of His grace, Right onward to my rest.

There in His book I bear,

A more than conqueror's name,A soldier, son, and fellow-heir, Who fought and overcame.

His be the victor's name,

Who fought our fight alone; Triumphant saints no honour claim,

Their conquest was His own.