I remember the time when we went forth arm in arm over the newly mown fields, scaring the grasshoppers from our pathway, with our baskets on our arms, to gather the blueberries that hung in clusters on their slender stalks. But thou art gone now to the fairer fields of paradise, to pluck sweeter fruit than ever ripened here. Thou art gone! The blueberry bushes have fallen long ago before the scythe; the field has changed its appearance; and as for me, the breezes woo me forth in vain—I cannot go. Sickness and sorrow have come between me and the love of earth; they have cast a dark shadow over what I once thought fair. But as there can be no shadow without a light beyond it I have caught bright glimpses of a better home—a land of life and glory.
[We have no clue to the time when this was written. It is imperfect: the second verse is not complete in the copy. But is it not true to life so far as earthly hope is concerned? Of "the hope of the gospel" our songstress would speak differently.]
What a syren is Hope—what a charming deceiver!She whispers so blandly you can but believe her;The garments of Truth and of Reason she stealethAnd every deformity thus she concealeth.
When down in the valley I'm talking with SorrowShe comes with a song—all its burdento-morrow;She mocks my companion….
Then she beckons me up to the top of a mountain;She brings me a draught from a clear, sparkling fountain,And talks of the beautiful prospect before usTill ere I'm aware, the dark night settles o'er us.
Sometimes in my anger I try to elude her;I call her a jade and an idle intruder;But she kisses, caresses, and coaxes, and flattersTill I build me a castle the next zephyr shatters.
When I firmly resolve I will listen no longer,Than my will or my reason somehow she is stronger:I chide her, deride her, despise her and doubt her,And yet it is true I can't live without her!
Earth, with all thy grief and sorrow,And thy changes of to-morrow;With thy woe and with thy parting,With thy tears of anguish starting,With thy countless heart-strings breaking,With thy loved and lost forsaking,With thy famished millions sighing,With thy scenes of dead and dying,With thy graveyards without number,Where the old and youthful slumber;Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and dreary,Cold, and sad, and worn, and weary,Thou art not my home!
Earth, oh, earth! with all thy slaughterAnd thy streams of blood like waterO'er the field of battle gushing,Where the mighty armies rushing,Reckless of all human feeling,With the war trump loudly pealing,And the gallant banners flying,Trample on the dead and dying;Where the foe, the friend, the brother,Bathed in blood sleep by each other;Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and gory,Blood and tears make up thy story,Thou art not my home!
Earth, with all thy scenes of anguish,Where the poor and starving languish,To the proud oppressor bending,And their cries for mercy blending;Where the slave with bosom swelling,Which despair has made its dwelling,And the scalding tear-drops falling—Sight to human hearts appalling—Strives, but strives in vain to severFetters that must bind him ever;Earth, oh, earth! with each possessionSold to tyrants and oppression,Thou art not my home!
Earth, oh, earth! thy brightest treasures,Like thy hopes and like thy pleasures,Wintry winds are daily blighting;Pain, and woe, and death uniting,Youth and love and beauty crushing,And the sweetest voices hushing;Rich and poor, and old and blooming,To one common mansion dooming;While the cries of every nationMingle with those of creation;Earth, oh, earth! thus dark and dreary,Cold, and sad, and worn and weary,Thou art not my home!
Earth, oh, earth! though dark and gory,In thy pristine state of glory!Angels came upon thee gazing,Songs of love and rapture raising;For thou then wast bright and beaming,With the sunlight on thee streaming,With thy crystal waters lavingShores with fadeless forests waving;With thy plains and with thy mountains,With thy ever-gushing fountains;Earth, oh, earth! once fair and holy,Fallen, fallen, and so lowly;Thou art not my home!
Earth, oh, earth! bowed down by sorrow,Cheer thee, for there comes a morrow;Night and clouds, and gloom dispersing,And thyself, O earth, immersingIn a flood of light undying;When the curse upon thee lying,With its thousand woes attending.Death, and pain, and bosoms rending,Partings that the heart-strings sever,Will be banished and forever,—Earth, oh, earth! renewed in glory,Love and joy make up the story;Oh, be thou my home!
Earth, although thou seem'st forsaken,Yet a note of praise awaken;For the angels, lowly bendingRound the throne of light unending,Gaze upon thee, sad and groaning,Listen to thy bitter moaning;Thou hast scenes to them amazing,While on Calvary's mountain gazing;And they smile on every nationPurchased with so great salvation,—Earth, oh, earth! renewed in glory,Angels shall rehearse thy story;Oh, be thou my home!
Earth, the morn willsoonbreak o'er thee,And thy Saviour will restore thee;Far more bright and far more blooming,And more glorious robes assumingThan when first, o'er Eden ringing,Angel-voices were heard singing;For thy King himself descending,Heaven and earth together blending,With his saints a countless number,Those who live and those who slumber,Over thee will reign victorious,—Earth, oh, earth, thus bright and glorious,Be thou then my home!
While looking over an old manuscript, written by one who is long since passed from time into eternity, I met with the following lines: "It is six years to-day since my Elsa died, and five months since my Amanda left me forever. They sleep in the grave, and there they will remain through endless years." He then went on, in strains mournful and tender, and with all a father's sorrow deplored his loss. I could not wonder that he wept the tears of anguish and despair if, as he said, they are to remain in the dark tomb through endless years. The glorious Resurrection morning was unknown to him. He saw only the tomb, and considered not that there is One who holds the keys of the grave, and who will soon burst the icy bars of death and bring forth the righteous to immortality. Truly that morning has charms for the Christian. God grant that if I am called to slumber for a while I may "have part in the first resurrection."—June22, 1852.
Oh, fly away to the better land,Thou bird of the snowy wing!Oh, fly away to the blood-washed band,And hear the songs they sing!
But bear a message from us, O dove,To that bright and happy throng;For we have friends whom we dearly love,Who swell the Conqueror's song.
Oh tell them our hearts are sad and lone,Our homes not bright as of yore;For we miss the soft, the soothing toneOf the friends we loved before.
Oh tell them we sigh for the better land,For earth has grown sad and chill;And we long rejoicing with them to standOn the heights of Zion's hill.
Oh tell them we long to share their rest,Afar from all earthly strife;We long to lean on our Saviour's breast,And roam by the tree of life.
Oh tell them our fondest hopes are there,For our earthly hopes are o'er;And we sigh for the land all bright and fair—We sigh for the deathless shore.
Then fly away to the better land,Thou bird of the snowy wing!Oh fly away to the blood-washed band,And hear the songs they sing.
And then return with the speed of love,When the night grows dark and chill,And tell us, oh, tell us, thou white-winged dove!Do they love, do they love us still?
We know there is One, in that blissful home,Who loves and remembers us yet;Though weary and sorrowful now we roam,We know that he will not forget.
We'll trust him then, the great and the strong;By his own almighty handHe'll bring us soon with the blood-washed throngTo the bright, the better land.
What though the angry waves are high,And darkness reigns around?Let hope be bright in every eye,Our ship is homeward bound!
What though nor moon nor stars appearAmid the gloom profound,Why should we yield a place to fear?Our ship is homeward bound!
What though the lightnings glare above,And deaf'ning thunders roar,When with the eye of faith and loveWe view the distant shore?
We know that friends are waiting thereWe loved in life before;And angel forms all bright and fairLine the eternal shore.
We've often longed with them to bowAt our Redeemer's feet,—He loved us first, we love Him now,Then let the billows beat!
And let them bear our hopes away,Although they once were sweet,We catch a glimpse of coming day—Oh, let the billows beat!
The coward peers with trembling formInto the gloom profound,But we can smile to view the storm,Our ship is homeward bound!
And though for us on life's dark waveNo anchorage be found,—Oh, let our hearts be true and brave,Our ship is homeward bound!
Shades of night have gathered round,'Tis the hour of gloom profound;'Tis the hour when many sleep,'Tis the hour when many weep,Over pleasures buried deep.
Faces smiling through the day,Lips that told a spirit gay,Eyes that beamedas withdelight,Now concealed from human sight,Put aside the mask to-night.
Tossing on the couch of pain,Seeking rest but all in vain,With the dark and dreary tombOft appearing through the gloom,Weary sufferers wait their doom!
Bright and golden dreams have some:On their airy wings they come,Giving fancy leave to soarTo the happy scenes of yore,—Or to some untraveled shore.
By the hearth he holds so dear,Softly ringing in his earGentle voices, faces brightBursting on his gladdened sight,—Sits the wanderer to-night.
Clasping hands in holy trustLong since mouldered into dust,—Gazing into death-sealed eyes,With a look of sweet surprise,Every tear the mourner dries.
From some rugged mountain highMaking journeys through the sky,Or in amaranthine bowersTalking with the birds and flowers,Poets spend the midnight hours.
Phantoms that by day elude,Flying ever when pursued,—Like the desert mirage bright,Filled with joy and with delightDreamers fondly clasp to-night.
Oh, that morning's early beamShould dissolve the blissful dream!Oh, that love and hope should flyLike the mist in yonder sky,When the burning sun is high!
There's a morning yet to break,When the sleepers shall awakeFrom the couch and from the grave,From the mountain and the cave,From beneath the ocean wave.
Then thedreamof life is o'er,Then they wake to sleep no more;Then all earthly hopes shall flyLike the mist in yonder sky,—And that morning draweth nigh!
The old, the young, and the middle-aged all meet to-day in the house of prayer. From a thousand churches in our own and other lands the voice of praise and thanksgiving goes up to heaven—"The Lord is risen!"Oh glorious tidings! "The Lord is risen indeed," and hath appeared to Peter! aye, and to Mary also,—the poor sinner whose touch would have been profanation to the Pharisees of our own times. And still more wonderful, He hath appeared to Thomas—to Thomas the infidel, who laughed at the story of the resurrection!
Rejoice now, O sorrowing bride, for he sleeps no longer. Let thy glad songs of praise and adoration reach the skies, for the Lord is not among the dead—he is risen. "Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! shout, O daughter of Jerusalem!" for thy Savior has burst the iron bands of death and come forth a mighty conqueror. For thy sins he laid himself down in the icy tomb; he rises again for thy justification. For thy iniquities he suffered, died and was buried: he comes forth again that thou mayest be a sharer of his glory. He has hallowed the dreary tomb by his own dear presence, and now he has ascended to his Father and your Father, to his God and your God. He has taken his seat at the right hand of the Majesty on high, and there, despairing soul, trembling under the burden of sin, he pleads for thee (Heb. 7: 25). He points to the cross on Calvary, dripping with his own precious blood, and in a voice of tender compassion exclaims: "Father, I died for that wretched sinner; spare, oh spare him for my sake!" He has entered into the holy place by his own blood, having obtained eternal redemption for thee, O daughter of Zion.
O Thou whose footsteps are unknown,Whose path is on the sea,—Whose footstool earth, and heaven whose throne,Dost Thou remember me?
O Thou whom winds and waves obey,At whose supreme commandThe shining worlds pursue their way,Or in their orbits stand,—
Thou at whose touch the hills disperse,And burning mountains flee,Thou Ruler of the Universe,Dost Thou remember me?
This world though fallen still is thine,And dearer far to-dayThan all the countless orbs that shineBut never went astray.
For here the blessed Son of GodWas born, and wept, and died;Our valleys and our hills he trod,And they are sanctified.
On Him my guilty soul relies,Through him I come to thee;Thou dost accept my sacrifice,Thou dost remember me!
Dark hung the clouds o'er Galilee;A lonely bark was on the sea,Where wild the billows played;Deep terror filled each trembling frame,When suddenly the accents came,"'T is I—be not afraid!"
A martyr stood with tranquil air;He saw the stake, the fetters there,The fagots all arrayed;But, though such darkness reigned around,He caught the sweet, the cheering sound,"'T is I—be not afraid!"
A weary pilgrim roamed alone;For him was breathed no friendly tone,No friendly hand brought aid;But through the gloom so dark and drear,A gentle whisper reached his ear,"'T is I—be not afraid!"
A mother knelt in anguish wildBeside a loved, a dying child,And tears in torrents strayed;A soothing voice breathed to her heart,In tones that bade despair depart,"'T is I—be not afraid!"
Upon a bed of pain and deathA Christian faintly drew his breath,With spirit half dismayed;He heard a soft, a tender voice—It caused that spirit to rejoice—"'T is I—be not afraid!"
A penitent with streaming eyeRaised unto heaven his doleful cry,And fervently he prayed;A brilliant light around him shone,And with it came a heavenly tone,"'T is I-be not afraid!"
And when the trump from yonder skiesShall bid the silent dead arise;When suns and stars shall fade;When thunders roar, and mountains fall;The saints shall hear above them all,"'T is I-be not afraid!"
I have just finished "D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation." How many noble characters are here brought to light! how many fervent Christians—how many lofty souls—how many holy hearts! The firm and undaunted Luther, the gentle Melancthon, the brave and courageous Zwingle, the mild Ecolampadi—us, the zealous and fiery Farel—and a host of others equally noble in the Master's cause. And yet they all had their faults; not one of them was perfect. Though we may sometimes feel to deplore their failings, yet surely it is a comfort to the poor Christian, beset with temptations and wandering daily from the straight and narrow path, to look back upon the lives of the best of earth's sons—the noblest and the holiest,—and behold that even they sometimes went astray. It buoys up his soul with new hope and courage. It bids it cast aside every thought of justification save by faith in Jesus Christ. It increases that faith, and directs the weary pilgrim to the feet of Him who alone is holy and perfect.—June 30,1852.
I have heard music from a far-off land,Where sighs and sad laments are never heard;Where friends can meet and clasp each other's hand,But ne'er give utterance to that dreadful wordWhich has wrung hearts, and like a funeral knellHas tolled for our departed hopes—"Farewell!"
I have had visions of that blessed clime,Where fadeless flowers and fruits immortal grow—Far, far beyond the troubled waves of—Time,Where streams of living waters sparkling flow;And while a pilgrim here I sadly roam,I love to call that blissful land my home.
And often with the passing breeze I hearA sweet, a sad, perchance a warning tone:"Heaven calls for thee," falls on my willing ear;Oh! can the glorious message be mine own?Can it be mine, unworthy child of clay,To win the realms of everlasting day?
Through Him who died, through Him who rose again,Through Him who lives, and lives forevermore,I may at last that blissful rest obtain,And I may stand upon the lovely shoreWhere youth and health on every cheek shall bloom,Beyond the reach of death and of the tomb.
Then hail sweet voice! sweet message to my heart!Hail, land of love and home of endless peace!Ye ties that bind me here, oh! quickly part,And shout, my soul, for joy to find release,With angels meet and sing in sweet accord,Forever blest, forever with the Lord!
Come sit here close beside me and take my hand in thine,And tell me of the happy home I think will soon be mine;Oh, tell me of the river and of the garden fair,And of the tree of life that waves its healing branches there!
And tell me of the love of God who gave his only SonTo die and suffer on the cross for deeds that I have done;And tell to me the holy words the blessed Jesus spakeWhen from the courts of Heaven he came, an exile for my sake.
I love to hear how Mary sat at the Redeemer's feet,—I wish I could have been there too, I would have shared her seat;I envy much the little group that met at Martha's boardTo listen to the gentle voice of him whom they adored.
I envy those rude fishermen who rowed him o'er the sea,Who walked with him and talked with him as I now talk to thee;I envy those who brought their sick, just at the close of day,That they might be restored to health when Jesus passed that way.
Had I been living then I know I would have joined the crowd—"Have mercy, oh have mercy, Lord!" I would have cried aloud.Thou sayest that I still may go and tell him all my grief,And go I will; "Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief."
I know my heart is very hard, I feel the load within;But in the blood of Jesus Christ I wash away my sin;I lay my burden at his feet while to his cross I cling;I do so long to hear him speak death seems a blessed thing.
Now kneel here close beside me and lift thy voice in prayerThat I may say his will be done whatever I may bear,Oh, I should love toworkfor him, if that could be his will,But pray that I may be resigned—may suffer and be still.
Does not the blood of Jesus alone cleanse fromallsin?-who but sinners are invited to the great Fountain? Are my robes filthy?—where can they be made white but in the blood of the Lamb? Is my heart obdurate and unbelieving?—who can soften and subdue it save the Almighty One who listens to its throbbings and knows all its trouble? Am I tempted, sorely tempted?—who can pity like Him who in the wilderness met face to face the great enemy, the great tempter of mankind? Ah, my poor heart aches when I think of all that is in the past and of all the future may have in store for me. But is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there? Will He not take me by the hand and whisper, "Be of good cheer; thy sins are forgiven thee"? Will He not heal thy wounds by pouring into them the oil of consolation? He has promised to do this—yea, much more than this; and will he for the first time in the history of mankind fail to perform what he has spoken? Nay,nay, and I will doubt no longer…. O Jesus, my Mediator, my Redeemer, have compassion upon me, and declare thyself to the Father as THE LORD MY RIGHTEOUSNESS.—Sept. 1860.
Trust in God! He will direct thee,He will love and will protect thee;Lean upon his mighty arm,Fear no danger, fear no harm.Trust him for his grace and power;Trust him in each trying hour.
Trust in God whate'er betide thee!Trust him though he sometimes chide thee:'Tis in love to lead thee backWhen thou turnest from the track.Trust him, cling to him forever,And he will desert thee—never.
Trust in God, the Rock of ages!Louder still the tempest rages,Earthquakes heave and thunders roar,Mountain surges lash the shore,Nations tremble—hark! the warning,"Comes the night, and comes the morning."
Watchmen on the walls of ZionCatch a glimpse of Judah's Lion!Man of sorrows, Lamb once slain,Comes as King of kings to reign,And from long oppressed Creation,Break the anthems of salvation.
Trust in God! the morn awaits thee,And while such a hope elates thee,Wilt thou fold thy hands in ease?No, the golden moments seize!Lay thy gift upon the altar,Thou hast duties—do not falter!
Alone, and yet not alone am I; sad, and yet not sad. No human form intrudes upon my solitude, and yet He who fills creation with himself is surely with me; sad I am, for there are manyearthlythoughts that contribute to cast a shade upon my soul, and yetheavenlythoughts soon dispel such mournful ones. Oh, that my whole affection might be placed upon things above, and not on things on the earth! Why should my heart be gloomy when such a glorious prospect opens before me?—a world of immortal beauty, enlivened by the presence of God himself, and a glorious city, even the New Jerusalem. "Fly, lingering moments, fly away, and bring that long expected day" when Christ shall appear in glory to take his weary children home.
The wind has ceased—how still and tranquil all!The ghastly moon still shines upon the wall;While other eyes are closed why do I weep?Begone, ye phantoms, welcome, balmy sleep!And bear me to the shadowy land of dreamsWhere yesternight I roamed by crystal streams,And gathered flowers methought would never fade,Or talked with angels 'neath the pleasant shade!
It was a dream; ah, yes, and life to meWas once a dream—smooth as the placid seaWhen all is calm, and on its bosom liesThe golden radiance of the summer skies.There came a storm—the thunder's dreadful roar,The angry waves that beat against the shoreAwakened me—oh, I had lived too longIn the bright realms of fancy and of song.
Perhaps 'twas well the storm swept o'er the sea,Perhaps 'twas well the tumult startled me,'Twas well I learned there's much to do and dare,Much to be suffered, much to meekly bear,But when I found the real though unsought,And thought of life and trembled as I thought,—When like the leaves in autumn day by dayThe hopes I cherished hastened to decay,And hopeless, helpless in my great despairI turned to earth but found no solace there,'Twas well for me that in the darkened skiesI saw the Star of Bethlehem arise!
I know not why, though nature craves to know,That all my dreams of happiness belowShould be thus blighted, yet the time is nearWhen I, poor voyager, often shipwrecked here,Shall reach the port, and safely moored at lastReview the scenes and sufferings of the past,—Beholding where the shadows darkest layThe dawning glory of immortal day,And all along the path that seemed so drearLeaving this one memorial—God was here!
The thought is ever present, Shall these eyes indeed see the Maker of the universe? shall these feet indeed walk the Golden City? shall these hands wave the palm of victory and strike the chords of the glorious harp whose music shall be sweeter than that of David's? Can this be possible, and do I weep and mourn because of present affliction? Oh, the future, the future! what has it not in reserve for me? Glories of which mortal never dreamed: eternal life—eternal happiness—perpetual youth—knowledge unbounded, yet ever increasing! Fly, fly, fly, days of pain and sorrow! Hail, all hail! bright morn of deliverance. Itwillcome; and I—oh, the thought overpowers me—I, poor and wretched and sinful, shall be blessed forever,forever, FOREVER.
Dark the future yawns before me,Bitter griefs my bosom swell;But a light is breaking o'er me,And a voice—"All, all is well!"
Sad and lone has been my journey,Sad and lone my way must be:—Care and sorrow, pain and sickness,Long have been allotted me.
Sunshine—that o'er youthful bosomsFlings a bright and magic spell,Seldom breaks upon my pathway,Yet I know that all is well!
If the Hand that guides the planetsFeeds the ravens when they cry,Can it be that I'm unnoticedBy a Father's loving eye?
He has thoughts of mercy toward me,His designs I cannot tell;'Tis enough for me to trust Him,He knows best—and all is well!
Many doubts and many shadowsOft have flitted through my mind,And I've questioned, sadly questioned,But no answer could I find.
Earth was silent to my pleading,Nature taught me to rebel;But when I recall the promise"I am with thee"—all is well!
Many things I can't unravel;Many winding mazes see;But I'll go with faith unshaken,For the Lord is leading me.
And when beams of endless gloryThe mysterious clouds dispel,Grateful shall I tell my story,Grateful say that all was well!
We have wandered oft togetherAt the hour of setting sun;Shall we wander thus together,When the toils of life are done?
Many hours we've spent togetherScenes of joy and grief have known;Shall we spend the hours togetherWhen the joy will be alone?
Sad indeed would be our partingIf we hoped to meet no more,But although the tears are starting,Look we to a brighter shore.
Dark indeed would be the morrowWhen, apart we sadly roam,If beyond this world of sorrowWe could see no happier home.
But we've heard a joyful storyOf a land that's bright and fair,And we hope to share its glory,And to meet each other there.
Swiftly onward to the oceanRoll the troubled waves of time,Bearing us with every motionNearer to the blessed clime.
Soon the tears that now are startingWith their causes will be o'er;Soon the hands now clasped in partingWill be joined forevermore.
We have shared one home together,We have sat around one board;And we'll find a home togetherIn the Paradise restored!
Down the spout a torrent gushed, to be pent up in an old, dark tub, and made the slave of the washerwoman. Would it not have been better for thee, O water, to have fallen in the beautiful forest? to lie in the bosom of the lily, or become a looking glass for the many colored insects? "I would be useful," whispered the daughter of the cloud, "therefore I have stooped to an humble action—I left the abode of the lightning. My lot is a lowly one; my life full of sorrow and humiliation. I must pass through a fiery ordeal; I must be cast out and despised by those whom I have served. But then will be the time of my exaltation: the blessed Sun will take pity upon me, and make me a gem of beauty in the angels' highway!"
[Though no application has been made of this similitude, yet the truth designed to be taught is easily gathered: The Christian may be called to many a lowly act—to a ministration which will subject him to reproach and suffering here, but the day of exaltation is sure to come. "He that humbleth himself shall be exalted." The day hastens when from the heavens the Saviour will descend, "who will transform the body of our humiliation, that it may be conformed to the body of his glory."—Phil. 3:21 (Am. Bible Union Trans.). How glorious will the humble workers of earth appear when they are beautified by the Sun of righteousness in the resurrection morning! That will be all Easter day of surpassing loveliness.]
This is not home! from o'er the stormy seaBright birds of passage wing their way to me;They bear a message from the loved and lostWho tried the angry waves and safely crossed,And now in homelike mansions find reposeWhere billows never roar nor tempest blows.
As strangers here in foreign lands we roam,Oh, why should not the exile sigh for home?A thousand snares beset our thorny way,And night is round us—why not wish for day?The storm is high, beneath its wintry wingThe blossom fades—oh, why not wish for Spring?
The waters roll o'er treasures buried deep,And sacred dust the lonely churchyards keep—Homes are dissolved and ties are rent in twain,And things that charm can never charm again,On every brow we mark the hand of time,Oh, why not long for the celestial clime?
Wave after wave rolls inward to the land,Then comes the wail and then the parting hand,And those for whom we would have freely diedAre borne away upon the ebbing tide;We weep and mourn, we bid the sea restore,It mocks our grief—and takes one idol more.
'Tis well for us that ties which bind the heartToo strongly here are rudely snapped apart;'Tis well the pitcher at the fountain breaks,The golden bowl is shattered for our sakes,To show how frail and fleeting all we love,To raise our souls to lasting things above.
We are but pilgrims—like the tribes who roamIn every land but call no land their home,—And what their ancient Canaan is to them,So is to us the New Jerusalem;Then while our hopes, our hearts, our homes are there,"Thy Kingdom come" must be our fervent prayer!
Ah, well it is for thee that there is one ear that will listen, one eye that pities, one heart that will take thee in—"Thou God seest me!" Was ever consolation contained in so few words? Oh, repeat it when the heart is breaking—when between thee and every earthly object yawns a gulf dark and impassable. Thou Godseestme! Thou Godlovestme—lovestme! Thou knowest the agony of my spirit: thou knowest what I suffer, and thou must give me strength and grace to endure all, and to say in truth and sincerity, Thy will not mine be done.
We weep when from the darkened skyThe thunderbolts are driven,And wheresoe'er we turn our eyeOur earthly hopes are riven;But could we look beyond the stormThat threatens all before us,We might observe a heavenly formGuiding the tempest o'er us.
The eye that sees, the sparrow's fall,That never sleeps nor slumbers,Beholds our griefs however small,And every sigh he numbers.The angels fly at his command,With love their bosoms swelling,They lead us gently by the hand,—They hover round our dwelling.
And when the fading things of earthOur hearts too fondly cherish,Forgetful of their mortal birth,How suddenly they perish!But 'tis in mercy and in loveOur Father thus chastises,To fix our thoughts on things above;He strikes, yet sympathizes.
We know not, and we may not knowTill dawn the endless ages,Why round his children here belowThe howling tempest rages;Butthiswe know, that life nor deathOur souls from him can sever!We'll praise him with our latest breathWe'll sing his praise forever!
Poor pilgrim, weary with the toils of life, distressed and afflicted on every hand, persecuted and forsaken by thy fellowmen, hast thou ever fathomed the depths of that glorious declaration, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee"?—Heb. 13:5. Hast thou ever realized that in whatever situation thou mayest be placed—on the mountains of delight or in the vale of humiliation, in sickness or in health, in prosperity or in adversity, in life or in death—thou art under the immediate protection of the great Shepherd of Israel, who never sleeps nor slumbers? The heavens may gather blackness, the storm may come down in fury, but He who whispered, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, is "the same yesterday, to-day and forever"; and though now invisible his presence is with thee as truly and as really as it was with the timid band of disciples on the stormy sea of Galilee. The same Jesus that walked the streets of Jerusalem,—the pitiful, the affectionate, the tender-hearted,—is an eye-witness of all thy tears, thy trials and temptations. His ear, which was never closed to the cry of the poor and needy, is still open to thy call; and the heart which embraced the whole universe has a place for thee. The fires upon thy altar may have grown dim; the sacrifice may have been the poor and lean of thy flock; but the coals of divine love are bright upon the heavenly altar; and the great Sacrifice—the Lamb without spot or blemish-whispers of Calvary and Gethsemane, and mentions thee in his intercession.
Amazing love! love never to be fathomed. Angels who wait to do his' bidding, seraphim and cherubim who behold his face in glory, can ye comprehend the height and depth, the length and breadth of the Saviour's love? Ah! angels, and seraphim, and cherubim still bend above the mercy-seat and "desire to look into" these things; but ages on ages of eternity may roll away and the love that bowed the heavens for sinful and degraded mortals shall still remain an unsounded deep! And this love is for thee—forthee—, poor pilgrim. Plunge then deeply into this unfathomable ocean. Fear not to loosen thy hold upon the shore: there is nothing there worthy thy love. Thou art an heir of immortality, and the pleasures which endure for a season should be nothing to thee. Wealth, and honor, and power are only the gildings of a groaning and sin-cursed earth. The shouts of mirth and revelry borne upon the midnight air, are only the prelude to tears and sighs and mourning. Behind thee is the blackness of despair, before thee the everlasting sunshine. Away, away! tarry not to sip water from the broken cistern, for the living fountain gushes forth, clear as crystal; and the invitation is for all: "Ho, every one that thirsteth" (Isa. 55: 1; Rev. 21:6; 22:17).—Aug. 10, 1856.
Hark! there comes at midnight hourSound like funeral knell,Chaining us with magic power,Whispering, "Farewell."
'Tis the dying year's last sighMingling with the storm;Closes now his hollow eye,Sinks his feeble form.
Still at midnight, dark and lone,Mournful echoes ring,Murmuring in solemn tone,"Timeis on the wing."
O God, where art thou? where thy mighty throne?Why is thy face unseen, and thou unknown?—Source and support of all, why is thy formHidden from mortal eyes? when every stormThat sweeps athwart the dark and angry sky,When all the bright and burning orbs on high,When the deep sea that in its fury roars,When all its beautiful and fertile shores,When every river, hill and lowly dale,When every mountain, tree, and flowery vale,When every bird, and e'en the springingWhisper aloud,"There is, there is a God!"
These are thy works; but where, O God, art thou?Pavilioned in deep darkness, is thy browHid in dark folds, ne'er to be drawn apart?Will mortal never see thee as thou art?Yes; when the wheels of time have ceased to run,When yon bright orb its glorious, task has done,Then will the veil be rent which once concealedThe throne of God, the mighty unrevealed;Then human eyes will view his dwelling-place,And saints, as angels, see him face to face.
Lo in the east the Star begins to rise.The glorious centre for admiring eyesOf men and angels—Herald of the mornSo long foretold, the Prince of peace is born!O'er all the earth let hallelujahs ring,Let all the earth a fitting tribute bring—With gold and silver, frankincense and myrrh.Come from the south, or, clad in robes of fur,Come from the frozen north, from east and west,Prince, priest and warrior, earth's great ones and best,Come to the manger, humbly there lay downThe sword, the mitre and the jeweled crown.
The rich and noble celebrate the dayWith pomp and show; but who are these? make wayYe sons of wealth! ye rulers stand aside!This is no place, this is no hour for pride;The sick, the lame, the Wind, the deaf, the dumb,The sinful, poor and sorrowful may come;And even I can bring my little store—A weary, sin-sick heart—I've nothing more:The world may frown, the lofty may despise,The gift is precious in my Saviour's eyes.To him as sacred are the tears that fallIn lowly cottage as in princely hall,—No rich, no poor his loving bosom knows,He cares for all and pities all their woes,In the same censer offers up their prayers,And on his heart their names alike he bears.
O Star above all stars! whose blessed lightIllumes the darkness of our moral night,Still guide our wandering feet till He whose birthThou didst announce shall come again to earth,And wise and simple, king and subject meetTo hear their doom before the judgment-seat,—Till nature's groans with human groans shall cease,And Earth itself, once more with Heaven at peace,Shall put her robes of deathless beauty on,Time be no more, and the millennium dawn!
God made me poor—am I to blame?And shall I bow my headAs though it were some dreadful shameI had inherited?
Shall I among the rich and greatLike trembling culprit stand,Or like obedient servant waitTo do their least command?
And when they pass me by in scorn—As they have often done,—Shall I regret that I was bornAn humble farmer's son?
No! should it ever cause a sighThis were indeed a shame;For all unworthy then were ITo bear my father's name.
I'll pay to all the homage dueWhatever rank they hold;But to my manhood ever true,I will not bow to gold,
Came a stranger, sad and weary,To my humble cot one day,And he asked me for a shelter,—Long and rough had been the wayHe had traveledOn that sultry summer day.
Pain and grief had marred his beauty,And a tear was in his eyeAs he asked me for a shelter,And then waited a reply.Tears did gatherIn mine own, I knew not why.
'Neath my humble roof I led him,As he crossed the threshold o'er"Peace to thee," he softly whispered;Peace I never knew beforeFilled my bosom,As the stranger filled my door.
Be my friend and guest forever,In a trembling voice I said;And he smiled and laid so gentlyOne dear hand upon my head;It was bleeding,And I knew for me it bled!
"I will be thy guest forever,"Said the stranger unto me;"But the cost—say, hast thou counted—Counted what the cost will be?Earthly pleasures,Wilt thou leave them all for me?
"Wilt thou take my yoke upon thee?Wilt thou humbly bear my name?Crush the risings of ambition,And the hopes of earthly fame?Freely suffering,For my sake, reproach and shame?"
Then I said, Both fame and pleasureWillingly I can resign;Let me only feel thy presence,Let me know that thou art mine,And dear Saviour,All I have and am are thine!
While reading to-day an account of the descendants of Adam my mind was particularly struck with the short but comprehensive narrative of Enoch: "He walked with God, and he was not; for God took him" (Gen. 5:21-24). He "walked with God," and how long? "Three hundred years" after he begat Methuselah. Oh, how strange that it should be so hard for me to walk in the commandments of the Lord even for a few days! O God, give me more of the love and more of the faith that Enoch possessed.—Aug.18,1853.
Lonely pilgrim, art thou sinking'Neath the weight of grief and care?Bitter dregs of sorrow drinkingFrom the cup of dark despair?Mourn not, for thy Master's footstepsThe same gloomy paths have trodHe has drained the cup of anguish,—He, the mighty Son of God.
Does gaunt poverty surround thee,With its pale and meagre train?Do they gather closely round thee,Want, and suffering and pain?Mourn not, for the chilly dew-drops,Fell upon thy Master's bed;Mourn not, for the Prince of GloryHad not where to lay his head!
Are thy kindred lowly lyingIn the cold and silent tomb,Heedless of thy plaintive sighing,Heedless of thy grief and gloom?Know thy Master's tears descended,Where a dearly-loved one slept;He knows well thy weight of sorrow;Murmur not, for Jesus wept.
Do the friends that once caressed theePass thee by with frowning brow?Has the friendship that once blessed theeChanged to bitter hatred now?Weep not, for thy Masters brethrenIn his sorrow turned aside,Scorned to own that once they loved him;Weep not,—Jesus was denied!
Does a scoffing world deride thee,And expose to scorn and shame?Do thy foes rise up beside thee,Blast thy character and name?Know thy Master was derided,Scorned in Pilate's judgment-hall.Mourn not; Christ, the great Redeemer,Was despised and loathed by all.
Art thou torn with grief and anguish?Racked with many a burning pain?Does thy weary body languish?Fearful pangs torment thy brain?Murmur not; from Calvary's mountainList thy Master's dying groan!Murmur not; thy great RedeemerGave his life to save thine own!
Does the monster Death look dreary?Fill thy mind with fears and gloom?Does thy spirit, faint and weary,Shrink in terror from the tomb?Know thy Master's gone before thee,Crossed the dark and narrow tide,Disarmed Death of all his terrors:Then fear not—thy Saviour died!
Yes, he died,—the Prince of Glory,—Died upon the cursed tree;Pilgrim, spread the joyful story:Jesus died, and died for thee!And he rose,—he rose triumphant,—Burst the bars of death in twain.Lonely pilgrim, that same JesusWill return to earth again!
See the first faint beams of morningChasing night and clouds away,All the glorious sky adorning;Pilgrim, it is break of day!Rouse thee, pilgrim, weep no longer;Let thy glad Hosanna ring!Jesus comes in power and glory;Hail thy Saviour and thy King!
He calmly stands on the mountain's brow.God shield thee, thou lonely prophet, now!For thy friends are few, and thy foes are strong,And each heart beats high in that mocking throng;And every eye is fixed upon thee,As thou standest alone in thy majesty.
The prophets of Baal are many and great,And they move along in princely state;With a scornful eye and a haughty air,They have proudly taken their station there;While the blood of thy comrades stains the sod,And thou only art left a prophet of God.
Yet firm is thy step, and calm thy brow—The Lord God of hosts is for thee now;And, strong in his strength, thou mayest advance,And defy the world with thy piercing glance;While the prophets of Baal bend at thy nod,And the people own that the Lord, he is God.
The sun shines bright in the azure sky,And the morning breeze sweeps gently by,And all is quiet on earth, in air—Not a sound escapes from that multitude there;Though eager each eye and troubled each mien,Yet the stillness of death reigns over the scene.
But a voice is heard; and clear and loudIt breaks on the ears of the listening crowd;They quickly obey. A space is cleared;The bullock is slain, the altar is reared;While the prophets of Baal around it bend,And implore their god an answer to send.
The day wears on, and the sun is high—Still round that altar they madly cry;But the sky is serene as ever before,And, frantic with rage, they shout the more;But 't is all in vain; and the day has past,And the prophets of Baal have yielded at last.
Each heart beats high with anxiety there,As Elijah, with calm, majestic air,Alone and exposed to a nation's frown,Rebuilds the altar long since thrown down.'T is the hour for the evening sacrifice now,And he solemnly kneels on the mountain's brow.
On, the name of the Lord his God he calls;When, lo! quick as lightning, the fire falls!A smoke ascends to the vaulted sky,And with it arises a mingled cry;And bowed is each head, and bent is each kneeAs "The Lord, he is God!" rings loud o'er the sea.
'T is night, and the evening breeze grows chill;The prophet pleads with Jehovah still;He has seen the prophets of Baal slain.And now he implores for the falling rain.The heavens grow black at Jehovah's word;Arise, Elijah, thy prayer is heard!
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed ageBend together earnestly o'er the Sacred Page;One amid spring blossoms, while the falling leavesGather round the other sitting 'mid the sheaves;One amid the twilight of the coming day,While the shadows deepen round the other's way.
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age,Read the same sweet lessons from the Sacred Page;Eyes that brim with laughter, eyes that dim with years,Resting there pay tribute in a flood of tears;Rosy lips and pallid trembling at the cry—Mournfully repeating the Sabachthani!
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed ageDraw their consolation from the Sacred Page;One is in the valley where the grass is green,While the other gazes on a wintry scene;Both have lost their birth-right-both have felt their loss,And they both regain it through the blessed Cross!
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age,Find their way to Heaven in the Sacred Page;Like the little children waiting to be blessed,One goes forth rejoicing to the Saviour's breast,While the other clingeth to his mighty arm,'Mid the swelling Jordan feeling no alarm.
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age,Come, and seek for treasures in the Sacred Page;To the one how tender is the Saviour's call;Yet the invitation He extends to all;Earthly fountains fail you—hasten to assuageEvery grief of childhood—every pang of age!
Oh, what a book is the Bible! There is enough in one verse to condemn the whole world, and enough in another to redeem it.
No man in a dark night can behold himself in a mirror until a lamp is lighted,—and not even then distinctly and perfectly until the dawn of day: so no man can see himself in God's mirror until the beams of the divine lamp [the Holy Spirit] illume his soul,—nor even then can he see perfectly what a wretched and distorted being he is "until the day break" and, being made like his Saviour, he contrasts what he is with what he once was.
While on the cross the Saviour bleeds,While friend nor foe his anguish heeds,While many a taunt and bitter jeerBreak harshly on his holy ear,He prays,—what can that last prayer be?Oh, wondrous love, he prays for me!
Deep anguish fills his troubled soul,The streams of blood in torrents roll;And louder railings now are heard;He breathes not one complaining word;Yet, hark! he prays,—what can it be?Oh, wondrous love, hepraysfor me!
He bows his head, Immanuel dies;Darkness o'erspreads the azure skies,Loud thunders shake the earth and air,And earthquakes heave in horror there;Angels the act with wonder see;Oh, matchless love, hediesfor me!
He leaves the dark and gloomy grave,While angel-pinions round him wave,And rising from the mountain's brow,Appears before his Father now;He pleads,—what can those pleadings be?Oh, deathless love, hepleadsfor me!
And can I then such scenes behold,And still be careless, still be cold?Can I, with air of sinful pride,Cast such unbounded love aside?My soul, oh, can it,can itbe?Has Jesus died in vain for thee?
Oh, no! the crimson streams that glideFrom Calvary's deeply blood-stained side,Invite my soul, so stained with sin,To wash away its guilt therein;And in those precious drops I seeChrist has not died in vain for me!
The Saviour pleads, in thrilling tone,Before his mighty Father's throne,That for his sake my guilty nameWithin the book of life may claimA place. He smiles; and now I seeChrist does not plead in vain for me!
Amazing love! what tongue can tellThe wondrous depths that in thee dwell?What angel's mind can e'er exploreThe riches of thy boundless store?Oh, matchless love beyond degree,—Christ bled, he died, and pleads forme!
Arrows dipped in poison flewFrom the fatal bow;And they pierced my bosom through,And they laid me low.
Every nerve to anguish strung,In distress I cried:And the waste around me rung,But no voice replied.
"Cruel was the hand," I said,"That could draw the bow:Curses rest upon the headOf my heartless foe!"
Turning straightway at the sound,In the tangled wood,Pale, and bearing many a wound,There a stranger stood.
Mournfully on me he gazed,Not a word he said:But one hand the stranger raised,And I saw it bled.
Blood was flowing from his sideAnd his thorn-pierced brow;"Who has wounded thee?" I cried,And he answered, "Thou!"
Then I knew the Stranger well,And with sobs and tearsProstrate at his feet I fell,But he soothed my fears.
"Thou hast wounded me, but live,—And my blessing take:Henceforth wilt thou not forgiveFreely for my sake?"
Resting in his fond embrace,Eased of every woe,—Then I said, with smiling face,"Jesus, bless my foe!"
The storm was loud; a murky cloudO'erhung the midnight sky,And rude the blast that wildly passedA lonely orphan by;But ruder still the bitter thrillOf woe that rent his heart;Darker his fears, sadder the tearsThat evermore would start.
"Bleak is the storm, and on my formThe winds in fury beat;A racking pain, torments my brain,And sore these weary feet;No ray of light illumes the night,And here, alas! I roam,Where tempests howl and wild beasts growl;Oh, that I had a home!
"Full many a day has rolled awaySince I have laid me down,To cease to weep, and fall asleep,Save on the cold, damp ground;And many more may pass me o'erEre I may cease to roam;One year ago it was not so,—For then I had a home!
"Then on his child a father smiled,And fondly me caressed;When sorrow came, or bitter pain,I leaned upon his breast;He'd kiss my cheek, and kindly speakIn soft and soothing tone;Oh, what a strange and dreary change—For then I had a home!
"When evening gray shut out the day,Beside my mother's knee,With simple air I breathed the prayerThat mother taught to me;Then laid me down, not on the ground,Not on this cold, damp stone;But on my bed, love made instead,—For then I had a home!
"The livelong day I spent in playAround our peaceful cot,Or plucked the flowers from blooming bowers,And to my mother brought.Then bliss and joy without alloy,And love around me shone;Then hope could rest within my breast—For then I had a home!
"My father died, and by his sideMy darling mother sleeps;And now their child in anguish wildWanders around and weeps!The pleasant cot my father boughtA stranger calls his own;With tearful face I left the place,For it was not my home!
"No home have I, no shelter nigh,And none my grief to share;But I've a Friend, to him I'll bend,And he will grant my prayer.He'll lend an ear for he can hear,Though high his mighty throne;My steps he'll guide, and he'll provideThe orphan with a home!
"Dark grows the sky, my lips are dry,And cold my aching brow;Is this a dream?—for, lo! I seemTo see my mother now!Faint grows my breath, the arm's of deathAre surely round me thrown;Oh, what a light breaks on my sight!There, there's the orphan's home!"
With smiling face in death's embraceThe orphan calmly slept;He heard no more the tempest's roar;No more the orphan wept.No longer pain might rack his brain,No longer might he roam,The dearly loved he'd met above,And found with them a home!