Art thou distant, art thou near?
Wilt thou seem more dark or clear? Day with more of hope or fear?
Wilt thou come, not seen before Thou art standing at the door, Saying, light and life are o'er?
Or with such a gradual pace, As shall leave me largest space To regard thee face to face?
Shall I lay my drooping head On some loved lap, round my bed Prayer be made and tears be shed?
Or at distance from mine own, Name and kin alike unknown, Make my solitary moan?
Will there yet be things to leave, Hearts to which this heart must cleave, From which parting it must grieve?
Or shall life's best ties be o er, And all loved ones gone before To that other happier shore?
Shall I gently fall on sleep,
Death, like slumber, o'er me creep, Like a slumber sweet and deep?
Or the soul long strive in vain To get free, with toil and pain From its half-divided chain?
Little skills it where or how, If thou comest then or now, With a smooth or angry brow;
Come thou must, and we must die—
Jesus, Saviour, stand Thou by, When that last sleep seals our eye.
If sorrow came not near us, and the lore Which wisdom-working sorrow best imparts, Found never time of entrance to our hearts, If we had won already a safe shore, Or if our changes were already o'er, Our pilgrim being we might quite forget,
Our hearts but faintly on those mansions set,
Where there shall be no sorrow any more. Therefore we will not be unwise to ask This, nor secure exemption from our share Of mortal suffering, and life's drearier task- Not this, but grace our portion so to bear, That we may rest, when grief and pain are over, "With the meek Son of our Almighty Lover." Trench.
Voyager on life's troubled sea,
Sailing to Eternity,
Turn from earthly things away; Vain they are, and brief their stay: Chaining down to earth the heart, Nothing lasting they impart. Voyager, what are they to thee? Leave them all, and follow Me.
Traveller on the road of life, Seeking pleasure, finding strife ; Know the world can never give Aught on which the soul can live : Grasp not riches, seek not fame- Shining dust, and sounding name. Traveller, what are they to thee? Leave them all, and follow Me.
Wanderer from thy Father's throne, Hasten back-thine errings own; Turn-thy path leads not to Heaven: Turn-thy sins will be forgiven : Turn-and let thy songs of praise Mingle with angelic lays.
Wanderer, here is bliss for thee; Leave them all to follow Me!
R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
A BOOK OF SELECTIONS FOR THE SUFFERING.
With a PREFACE by C. J. VAUGHAN, D.D.
New Edition, 18mo. extra cloth, price 3s. 6d. Morocco, old style, 95.
MACMILLAN AND CO. LONDON.
« PreviousContinue » |