See how the nails those hands

And feet so tender rend;

See down his face and neck and breast His sacred blood descend.

Hark, with what awful cry

His spirit takes its flight,

That cry, it smote his mother's heart, And wrapt her soul in night."

Earth hears, and to its base

Rocks wildly to and fro;

How doth the ensanguined thorny crown
That beauteous brow transpierce!
How do the nails those hands and feet
Contract with tortures fierce!

He bows his head, and forth at last
His loving spirit soars ;

Yet even after death his heart

For us its tribute pours.

Beneath the wine-press of God's wrath His blood for us he drains;

HEAVIER THE CROSS.

"Je grösser Kreuz, je näher Himmel." HEAVIER the cross, the nearer heaven;

No cross without, no God within!
Death, judgment from the heart are driven,
Amid the world's false glare and din.
Oh, happy he, with all his loss,
Whom God hath set beneath the cross.

Heavier the cross, the better Christian;
This is the touchstone God applies.
How many a garden would be wasting
Unwet by showers from weeping eyes!
The gold by fire is purified;
The Christian is by trouble tried.

Heavier the cross, the stronger faith:
The loaded palm strikes deeper root;
The vine juice sweetly issueth

When men have pressed the clustered fruit;
And courage grows where dangers come,
Like pearls beneath the salt sea-foam.
Heavier the cross, the heartier prayer ;
The bruised herbs most fragrant are.
If sky and wind were always fair
The sailor would not watch the star;
And David's Psalms had ne'er been sung
If grief his heart had never wrung.
Heavier the cross, the more aspiring;

From vales we climb to mountain-crest;

Haste, from every clime and nation,

Fervent youth and reverent age; Peasant, prince, each rank and station,

Haste, and join this pilgrimage. East and west, and south and north, Send your saintliest spirits forth.

Mothers, ere the curtain closes

Round your children's sleep to-night, Tell them how their Lord reposes,

Waiting for to-morrow's light; Teach their dreams to him to rove, Him who loved them, him they love.

Matron grave and blooming maiden, Hoary sage and beardless boy, Hearts with grief and care o'erladen,

Hearts brimful of hope and joy,
Come, and greet in death's dark hall
Him who felt with, felt for all.

Men of God, devoutly toiling
This world's fetters to unbind,
Satan of his prey despoiling

In the hearts of humankind;
Let, to-night, your labors cease,
Give your careworn spirits peace.

Ye who roam our seas and mountains, Messengers of love and light;

Ye who guard truth's sacred fountains, Weary day and wakeful night; Men of labor, men of lore, Give your toils and studies o'er.

Dwellers in the woods and valleys, Ye of meek and lowly breast; Ye who, pent in crowded alleys,

Labor early, late take rest;

Leave the plough, and leave the loom; Meet us at our Saviour's tomb.

From your halls of stately beauty, Sculptured roof and marble floor, In this work of Christian duty

Haste, ye rich, and join the poor. Mean and noble, bond and free, Meet in frank equality.

Lo, his grave! the gray rock closes O'er that virgin burial-ground ; Near it breathe the garden roses, Trees funereal droop around, In whose boughs the small birds rest, And the stock-dove builds her nest.

And the morn with floods of splendor Fills the spicy midnight air;

Tranquil sounds, and voices tender,

Speak of life and gladness there;

Ne'er was living thing, I wot,
Which our Lord regarded not.

Bird and beast and insect rover,
E'en the lilies of the field,
Till his gentle life was over,

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Heavenly thought to him could yield. All that is to him did prove

Food for wisdom, food for love.

But the hearts that bowed before him Most of all to him were dear; Let such hearts to-night watch o'er him Till the dayspring shall appear. Then a brighter sun shall rise Than e'er kindled up the skies.

All night long, with plaintive voicing,
Chant his requiem soft and low;
Loftier strains of loud rejoicing

From to-morrow's harps shall flow.
"Death and hell at length are slain,
Christ hath triumphed, Christ doth reign.”
JOHN MOULTRIE.

ANGELS, ROLL THE ROCK AWAY!

THOMAS SCOTT, author of "Lyric Poems and Hymns, Devotional and Moral," son of a dissenting minister of Norwich, England, was born about the year 1700, and died about 1776, at Hupton, in Norfolk. This hymn is much changed from its original form, in which it had nine stanzas, and was entitled "The Resurrection and Ascension."

ANGELS, roll the rock away!
Death, yield up the mighty prey!
See! the Saviour quits the tomb,
Glowing with immortal bloom.

Hallelujah! hallelujah!
Christ the Lord is risen to-day.