Are you in deep distress?

Then sing to ease the smart. Are you rejoiced? let psalms express The gladness of your heart.

When Paul and Silas sung,

The earth began to quake; The prison doors were open flung, Her firm foundations shake.

The prisoners' bands were loosed;
Who can the Lord control?
May equal powers be now diffused,

And free each captive soul.

Sing, till you feel your hearts

Ascending with your tongues; Sing, till the love of sin departs, And grace inspires your songs.

Sing, till you hear Christ say,

"Your sins are all forgiven";

Go on, rejoicing all the way,
And sing your souls to heaven.

WILLIAM HAMMOND.

PRAYER TO JESUS.

WHEN Jesus came to earth of old,
He came in weakness and in woe;
He wore no form of angel mould,
But took our nature, poor and low.
But, when he cometh back once more,
There shall be set the great white throne,
And earth and heaven shall flee before
The face of him that sits thereon.

O Son of God, in glory crowned,
The Judge ordained of quick and dead!
O Son of man, so pitying found
For all the tears thy people shed!
Be with us in this darkened place,
This weary, restless, dangerous night;
And teach, oh, teach us, by thy grace,
To struggle onward into light!

And since, in God's recording book,
Our sins are written, every one,
The crime, the wrath, the wandering look,
The good we knew, and left undone;
Lord, ere the last dread trump be heard,
And ere before thy face we stand,
Look thou on each accusing word,
And blot it with thy bleeding hand.

And by the love that brought thee here, And by the cross, and by the grave,

Yet, if I heard thy voice say . . . "Come,"

So might I, dying, die near thee.
It shames me not, to have passed by
The temple-doors in every street
Where men profaned thee: but that I
Have left neglected, choked with weeds,
Defrauded of its incense sweet
From holy thoughts and loyal deeds,
The fane thou gavest me to enshrine
Thee in, this wretched heart of mine.
The satyr there hath entered in;

The owl that loves the darkened hour;
And obscene shapes of night and sin
Still haunt, where God designed a bower
For angels.

Yet I will not say

How oft I have aspired in vain,
How toiled along the rugged way,
And held my faith above my pain,

For this thou knowest. Thou knowest when

I faltered, and when I was strong;
And how from that of other men
My fate was different: all the wrong
Which devastated hope in me:

The ravaged years; the excited heart,
That found in pain its only part
Of love: the master misery
That shattered all my early years.
From which, in vain, I sought to flee:
Thou knowest the long repentant tears,
Thou heard'st me cry against the spheres,
So sharp my anguish seemed to be!
All this thou knowest. Though I should keep
Silence, thou knowest my hands were free
From sin, when all things cried to me

To sin. Thou knowest that. had I rolled
My soul in hell flame fifty-fold,

My sorrow could not be more deep.
Lord! there is nothing hid from thee.
ROBERT, LORD LYTTON.

And, while thou shalt smile upon me,
God of wisdom, love, and might,
Foes may hate and friends may shun me,
Show thy face, and all is bright.

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure!
Come, disaster, scorn, and pain!
In thy service pain is pleasure;
With thy favor loss is gain.

I have called thee, Abba, Father;
I have stayed my heart on thee:
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather,
All must work for good to me.

Man may trouble and distress me,

'T will but drive me to thy breast; Life with trials hard may press me,

Heaven will bring me sweeter rest!
Oh, 't is not in grief to harm me,

While thy love is left to me!
Oh, 't were not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmixed with thee!

Take, my soul, thy full salvation,

Rise o'er sin and fear and care;
Joy to find in every station

Something still to do or bear.
Think what Spirit dwells within thee;
What a Father's smile is thine;

What a Saviour died to win thee;

Child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?

Haste then on from grace to glory,

Armed by faith, and winged by prayer; Heaven's eternal day's before thee, God's own hand shall guide thee there; Soon shall close thy earthly mission, Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days, Hope soon change to glad fruition, Faith to sight, and prayer to praise !

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE

1825.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared

I knew not what of white, and underneath, Little by little, there came forth another. My master yet had uttered not a word,

While the first whiteness into wings unfolded;

But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee!

Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!

Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! See, how he scorns all human arguments,

So that no oar he wants, no other sail Than his own wings, between so distant shores!

See, how he holds them, pointed straight to

heaven,

Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal

hair!"

And then, as nearer and more near us came The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,

So that the eye could not sustain his pres

ence,

But down I cast it; and he came to shore
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light,
So that the water swallowed nought thereof.
Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot !
Beatitude seemed written in his face!
And more than a hundred spirits sat within.
"In exitu Israel de Ægypto!"

Thus sang they all together in one voice, With whatso in that Psalm is after written. Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, And he departed swiftly as he came.

1867.

She whom weary years before
In his love he hovered o'er,
Mother, daughter, spouse of God,
Chants anew her song of laud :

629

And the apostolic choir,
Glowing with the tongues of fire,
Clearer now and joyous raise
Christ their monarch's endless praise.
He hath let his breath go forth
And renewed the face of earth,
Bid the brook a river be,
And the river made a sea.

From the snows where Scythians toil
To Cyrene's thirsty soil,

From the Indian's distant home
To the gates of mighty Rome,
Alleluia! raise the song,
Raise it high, and raise it long,
To the Father and the Word,
And the Spirit, God adored.

Alleluia !
RICHARD FREDERICK LITTLEDALE.

HALLOWED FOREVER BE THAT TWILIGHT HOUR.

MRS MARTHA A. PERRY LOWE, widow of the late Rev Charles Lowe, was born at Keene, N. H., Nov. 21, 1829. Not long after her marriage, in 1857, she published “The Olive and the Pine," in which scenes in Spain and New England are contrasted.

HALLOWED forever be that twilight hour When those disciples went upon their way: The deepening shadows o'er their spirits lower,

The tender griefs that come with close of day.

A gentle stranger tarried by their side, And asked them sweetly why they were so sad.

"Hast thou not seen our Master crucified?"

They answered. "How can we again be glad?"

“O children," said the stranger, "do you read The things which all the holy prophets said, How he would suffer and would die indeed, But yet should rise in glory from the dead?"

And when the little village came in view, They said, "Abide with us; for it is late": So he went in, and sat down with the two, And took the bread, and blessed it ere they

ate.

Their searching eyes were fastened on his face; They caught the look which chained them as of old,

Only it wore diviner, loftier grace:
Their glorious risen Master they behold!

And then they knew how strangely all the while

Their spirits burned within them as he talked, Or listened to them with that very smile, Explaining oft the Scriptures while they walked.

They felt reward for all their bitter pain,
When lo, he vanished softly from their sight!
But they could never be so sad again
Who had the memory of that blessed night.

MARTHA PERRY LOWE

CONSECRATION.

FROM my lips in their defilement,
From my heart in its beguilement,
From my tongue, which speaks not fair,
From my soul, stained everywhere,
O my Jesus, take my prayer!
Spurn me not, for all it says,
Not for words and not for ways,
Not for shamelessness endued!
Make me brave to speak my mood,
O my Jesus, as I would,

Or teach me (which I rather seek)
What to do and what to speak.
I have sinned more than she
Who, learning where to meet with thee,
And bringing myrrh, the highest priced,
Anointed bravely, from her knee
Thy blessed feet accordingly.

My God, my Lord, my Christ,
As thou saidest not, "Depart,”
To that suppliant from her heart,
Scorn me not, O Word, that art
The gentlest one of all words said!
But give thy feet to me instead,
That tenderly I may them kiss,
And clasp them close, and never miss,
With over-dropping tears, as free
And precious as that myrrh could be,
To anoint them bravely from my knee!
Wash me with thy tears! draw nigh me,
That their salt may purify me!
Thou remit my sins, who knowest
All the sinning, to the lowest.
Knowest all my wounds, and seest
All the stripes thyself decreest;
Yea, but knowest all my faith,

Seest all my force to death,
Hearest all my wailings low
That mine evil should be so.

Nothing hidden but appears
In thy knowledge, O Divine,
O Creator, Saviour mine!

Not a drop of falling tears,
Not a breath of inward moan,
Not a heart-beat which is gone.

From the Greek of ST. JOHN DAMASCENUS. Translated by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 1863

OUR CHRIST.

IN Christ I feel the heart of God
Throbbing from heaven through earth :
Life stirs again within the clod:
Renewed in beauteous birth,
The soul springs up, a flower of prayer,
Breathing his breath out on the air.

In Christ I touch the hand of God,
From his pure height reached down,
By blessed ways before untrod,

To lift us to our crown;
Victory that only perfect is
Through loving sacrifice, like his.

Holding his hand, my steadied feet

May walk the air, the seas;

On life and death his smile falls sweet,
Lights up all mysteries :
Stranger nor exile can I be

In new worlds where he leadeth me.

Not my Christ only; he is ours;

Humanity's close bond; Key to its vast, unopened powers,

Dream of our dreams beyond. — What yet we shall be, none can tell; Now are we his, and all is well. 1879

LUCY LARCOM.

O FOUNTAIN ETERNAL OF LIFE.

CHRISTIAN JACOB Kortsch, who died in 1735, in the position of head master of the schools of Ebling, Prussia, was a writer of eminent piety and learning. He was born in Meissen.

O FOUNTAIN eternal of life and of light, Where all find refreshment, who seek it aright, Pure spring of salvation

And true consolation,

From God's holy temple thy living stream

rolls,

Whose waters flow ample for all thirsty souls.