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Uphold us so in face of death,

What time soe'er it be,

That we may meet it with strong heart, And may die peacefully.

The true and perfect gentleness

We find in thee alone;
Make us to know thy loveliness,
Teach us to love thee known;
Grant us sweet fellowship with thee,
And all who are thine own.

Our hope is in none else but thee;

Faith holds thy promise fast; Be pleased, Lord, to strengthen us, Whom thou redeemed hast, To bear all troubles patiently, And overcome at last.

Children of Eve, and heirs of ill,

To thee thy banished cry;
To thee in sorrow's vale we bring
Our sighs and misery;

We take the sinners' place, and plead:
Lord, save us, or we die.

Look, thou, our Daysman and High Priest,
Upon our low estate;

Make us to see God's face in peace

Through thee, our Advocate ;
With thee, our Saviour, may our feet
Enter at heaven's gate.

Lord Jesus Christ of holy souls,

The Bridegroom sweet and true,
Meet thou the rage of Antichrist,
Break thou his nets in two;
Grant us thy Spirit's help, thy will
In very deed to do.

JOHN CALVIN, 1560. Translated by
D. D. BANNERMAN, 1879.

THE WORLD.

"And when he is come, he will reprove the world of sin, and of righteousness, and of judgment."- JOHN xvi. 8.

THE world is wise, for the world is old;
Five thousand years their tale have told;

Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,

Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The world is kind if we ask not too much;

It is sweet to the taste, and smooth to the touch;

Yet the world is not happy, as the world might be,

Why is it? why is it? Oh, answer me!

The world is old!

Its air grows dull and cold;

Upon its aged face

The wrinkles come apace;
Its western sky is wan,

Its youth and joy are gone.
O Master, be our light,
When o'er us falls the night.

Evil is round!
Iniquities abound;

Our cottage will be lone
When the great Sun is gone;
O Saviour, come and bless,
Come share our loneliness;
We need a comforter;
Take up thy dwelling here.

HORATIUS BONAR, D. D.

IN TEMPTATION.

JESU, lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high; Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,

Till the storm of life be past; Safe into the haven guide;

Oh, receive my soul at last!

Other refuge have I none;

Hangs my helpless soul on thee; Leave, ah, leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me! All my trust on thee is stayed, All my help from thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head

With the shadow of thy wing!

Wilt thou not regard my call?

Wilt thou not accept my prayer? Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall!

Lo! on thee I cast my care! Reach me out thy gracious hand! While I of thy strength receive, Hoping against hope I stand, Dying, and behold I live!

Thou, O Christ, art all I want;

More than all in thee I find: Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick, and lead the blind! Just and holy is thy name;

I am all unrighteousness; False and full of sin I am,

Thou art full of truth and grace.

O MASTER, let me walk with thee
In lowly paths of service free;
Tell me thy secret; help me bear
The strain of toil, the fret of care;
Help me the slow of heart to move
By some clear winning word of love;
Teach me the wayward feet to stay,
And guide them in the homeward way.

O Master, let me walk with thee
Before the taunting Pharisee;
Help me to bear the sting of spite,
The hate of men who hide thy light,
The sore distrust of souls sincere
Who cannot read thy judgments clear,
The dulness of the multitude
Who dimly guess that thou art good.

Teach me thy patience; still with thee
In closer, dearer company,

In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,
In trust that triumphs over wrong,
In hope that sends a shining ray
Far down the future's broadening way,
In peace that only thou canst give,
With thee, O Master, let me live!
WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

1879.

JESUS, JESUS, VISIT ME!

The REV. ROBINSON POTTER DUNN was Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in Brown University. He was born in 1825, and died in 1867.

JESUS, Jesus, visit me!

How my soul longs after thee!
When, my best, my dearest Friend,
Shall our separation end?

Lord, my longings never cease,
Without thee I find no peace;
'Tis my constant cry to thee,
Jesus, Jesus, visit me!

Mean the joys of earth appear,
All below is dark and drear;
Nought but thy beloved voice
Can my wretched heart rejoice.

Thou alone, my gracious Lord,
Art my shield and great reward;
All my hope, my Saviour thou,
To thy sovereign will I bow.

Come, inhabit then my heart,
Purge its sin, and heal its smart;
See, I ever cry to thee,
Jesus, Jesus, visit me!

Patiently I wait thy day;
For this gift alone I pray,
That when death shall visit me
Thou my light and life wilt be.

ANGELUS SILESIUS, 1660. Translated by
ROBINSON POTTER DUNN, D. D.

HYMN TO JESUS.

ALEXANDRE RODOLPHE VINET, a celebrated French theologian, was born at Ouchy, canton Vaud, Switzerland, June 17, 177, and died at Clarens, May 10, 1847. He was a member of the Free Church, and in 1837 was made professor at the seminary at Lausanne. The REV. HENRY DOWNTON, an English clergyman, was born in 1818, and graduated at Cambridge. For a time he was British chaplain at Geneva. His hymns appeared in Arthur Tozer Russell's "Psalms and Hymns" (1857), but the following is of a later date.

THOU, of earth desired, adored,
Joy and glory of the skies,
Thou, my Brother, Saviour, Lord,
Lo! I bend before thine eyes:
Oh that mild, yet awful mien !
Grace commanding, yet serene!
Of thy gifts the triple dower,
Light, hope, peace, upon me shower.

Long have I my feeble sight

Strained, and nothing met my view;
Long my mind hath yearned for light,
Fathomed all, yet nothing knew:
Oh the blessings thus foregone!
Fleeting lights in vain that shone !
Useless griefs which failed to bless!
Draughts of deadly happiness!

Say, my soul, but now forlorn,

Whence is come this calm to thee?
Say, my mind, with searching worn,

How so clearly dost thou see?
All my doubts, behold, they cease!
Sinks the storm to deepest peace!
Oh, strange mystery of love!
Grace my highest thoughts above!

Greater than all names that are,
Jesus is our Saviour's name :
Gulfs to fill, which severed far

God from sinners. Jesus came! To my tongue that name how dear, Melting hardness, calming fear; Name to make the rebel mourn, And remorse to sorrow turn!

Heart Divine! my comfort be; Be my refuge in the strife; From the tempest shelter me;

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Be at death my better life!
See my wound, how deep and sore;
Heal me, heal ten thousand more;
Yea, o'er all this world of woe
Bid thy boundless mercy flow!

Translated from the French of VINET
by HENRY DOWNTON.

A HYMN TO CHRIST,

AT THE AUTHOR'S LAST GOING INTO GERMANY. JOHN DONNE was born of Roman Catholic parentage, in London, in 1573. He took orders in the Established Church, and became a preacher of note. He is now remembered as a poet of strange conceits, of the class called, without exact reason, "Metaphysical "poets. He died March 31, 1631.

IN what torn ship soever I embark,
That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark;
What sea soever swallow me, that flood
Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood.
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face, yet through that mask I know those

eyes,

Which, though they turn away sometimes, They never will despise.

I sacrifice this island unto thee,
And all whom I love here, and who love me:
When I have put this flood 'twixt them and

me,

Put thou thy blood betwixt my sins and thee.
As the tree's sap doth seek the root below
In winter, in my winter now I go

Where none but thee, the eternal root
Of true love, I may know.

Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost control
The amorousness of an harmonious soul;
But thou wouldst have that love thyself: as

thou

Art jealous, Lord. so I am jealous now.
Thou lov'st not till from loving more thou free
My soul: whoever gives takes liberty;
Oh, if thou car'st not whom I love,
Alas, thou lov'st not me!

Oн, happy day, that fixed my choice
On thee, my Saviour and my God!
Well may this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its raptures all abroad.

Oh, happy bond, that seals my vows
To him who merits all my love!
Let cheerful anthems fill his house,
While to that sacred shrine I move.

'Tis done, the great transaction 's done;
I am my Lord's, and he is mine;
He drew me, and I followed on,

Charmed to confess the voice divine.

Hast thou a lamb in all thy flock,

I would disdain to feed?
Hast thou a foe, before whose face
I fear thy cause to plead?
Would not my ardent spirit vie,
With angels round the throne,
To execute thy sacred will,

And make thy glory known?

Would not my heart pour forth its blood
In honor of thy name?

And challenge the cold hand of death
To damp the immortal flame?

Thou know'st I love thee, dearest Lord;
But oh, I long to soar

Far from the sphere of mortal joys,
And learn to love thee more!

PHILIP DODDRIDGE.

PRAISE TO JESUS.

As with gladness men of old
Did the guiding star behold;
As with joy they hailed its light,
Leading onward, beaming bright;
So, most gracious God, may we
Evermore be led by thee.

As with joyful steps they sped
To that lowly manger-bed,
There to bend the knee before
Him whom heaven and earth adore;
So may we with willing feet
Ever seek thy mercy-seat.

As they offered gifts most rare
At that manger rude and bare;
So may we, with holy joy,

Pure, and free from sin's alloy,
All our costliest treasures bring,
Christ, to thee, our heavenly King.

Holy Jesus! every day
Keep us the narrow way;
And, when earthly things are past,
Bring our ransomed souls at last
Where they need no star to guide,
Where no clouds thy glory hide.

FAITH AND COMMUNION.

JAMES GEORGE DECK has written a number of hymns that are in the collection of the Plymouth Brethren, of which body Mr. Deck is a minister. He was once an officer in the English army in India, but later lived in New Zealand, where he went in 1852.

WHEN first o'erwhelmed with sin and shame,
To Jesu's cross I trembling came,
Burdened with guilt, and full of fear,
Yet drawn by love, I ventured near,
Pardon I found, and peace with God,
In Jesu's rich, atoning blood.

My sin is gone, my fears are o'er,
I shun his presence now no more;
He sits upon the throne of
grace,
He bids me boldly seek his face;
Sprinkled upon the throne of God,
I see that rich, atoning blood.

Before his face my priest appears;
My Advocate the Father hears :
That precious blood, before his eyes,
Both day and night, for mercy cries!
It speaks, it ever speaks to God,
The voice of that atoning blood.

By faith that voice I also hear;
It answers doubt, it stills each fear:
The accuser seeks in vain to move
The wrath of him whose name is Love;
Each charge against the sons of God
Is silenced by the atoning blood.

Here I can rest without a fear:
By this, to God I now draw near;
By this, I triumph over sin,

For this has made and keeps me clean;
And when I reach the throne of God,
I'll praise that rich, atoning blood.

JAMES GEORGE Deck.

TO THE NAME ABOVE EVERY NAME.

I SING the name which none can say
But touched with an interior ray;
The name of our new peace; our good ;
Our bliss, and supernatural blood;
The name of all our lives and loves.
Hearken, and help, ye holy doves!
The high-born brood of day; you bright
Candidates of blissful light,

The heirs elect of love; whose names belong
Unto the everlasting life of song;

All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast Of this unbounded name build your warm nest.

Awake, my glory, soul, if such thou be, And that fair word at all refer to thee, Awake and sing,

And be all wing;

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Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee. Oh, thou art poor

Of noble powers, I see,

And full of nothing else but empty me;
Narrow, and low, and infinitely less
Than this great morning's mighty business.
One little world or two,
Alas! will never do;

We must have store.

Go, soul, out of thyself, and seek for more; Go and request

Great Nature for the key of her huge chest
Of heaven's, the self-involving set of spheres,
Which dull mortality more feels than hears;
Then rouse the nest

Of nimble art, and traverse round
The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound:
And beat a summons in the same
All-sovereign name,

To warn each several kind

And shape of sweetness, be they such
As sigh with supple wind,

Or answer artful touch,

That they convene and come away

To wait at the love-crowned doors of that