HYMN FOR THE CONSECRATION OF A
How vain the effort to erect
A temple meet for Thee, Most High!
Though earth the verdant floor had decked,
And heaven had spread its canopy:
No limit can thy presence know,
No earthly house thy glory shew.
And yet 'twas in an humble shed
The wandering shepherds found their King; The lowly manger was thy bed,
Whose praise angelic myriads sing; No meaner shrine exists on earth, Than that ennobled by thy birth.
When, trembling to an upper room,
Thy feeble infant church withdrew,
When all was doubt, when all was gloom,
Thou, our e'erliving Head, didst shew
That where but two or three appear,
Met in thy name, Thou wilt be there.
Then come! Assembled in thy name,
To dedicate this house to Thee,
Thy promise, Saviour, would we claim,
Thy word, thy truth, our warranty:
Fulfil the pledge which Thou hast given,
That prayer from earth shall enter heaven!
R. W. KYLE.
THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there;
There is no fire-side, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair.
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mourners for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted.
Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise;
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapours,
Amidst these earthly damps;
What seem to us but dim funereal tapers,
May be Heaven's distant lamps.
They are not dead! the lambs of our affection, But gone into that school,
Where they no longer need our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.
THE SAVIOUR'S INVITATION.
COME, says Jesus' sacred voice,
Come and make my paths your choice;
I will guide you to your home;
Weary pilgrim, hither come!
Hither come, for here is found
Balm that flows for every wound;
Peace that ever shall endure;
Rest eternal, sacred, sure!
Ye who, houseless, sad, forlorn,
Long have borne the world's proud scorn;
Long have roam'd this barren waste;
Weary pilgrims, hither haste!
Ye who tost on beds of pain,
Seek for rest, but seek in vain ;
Ye whose swollen and sleepless eyes
Long to see the morning rise;
Ye by fiercer anguish torn,
Who the load of sin have borne ;
Here repose your heavy care:
A wounded spirit who can bear?
Hither come, for here is found
Balm that flows for every wound ;
Peace that ever shall endure;
Rest eternal, sacred, sure.
MRS. BARBAuld,
THE moon has but a borrowed light,
A faint and feeble ray;
She owes her beauty to the night,
And hides herself by day.
No cheering warmth her beam conveys,
Though pleasing to behold;
We may upon her brightness gaze,
And still be pierced with cold.
Just such is all the light to man
Which reason can impart;
It cannot shew an object plain,
Or warm the frozen heart.
The Gospel, like the sun at noon,
Affords a glorious light;
Then fallen reason's boasted moon
Appears no longer bright.
And Grace, not light alone bestows,
But adds a quickening power;
The desert blossoms like the rose,
And sin prevails no more.
LOUD was the wind, and wild the tide ;
The ship her course delayed:
Jesus came to their help and cried,
"'Tis I be not afraid."
Thus, when the storm of life is high,
Come Saviour, to my aid!
Come, when no other help is nigh,
"Be not afraid."
Speak, and my griefs no more are heard ;
Speak, and my fears are laid;
Speak, and my soul shall bless the word,
""Tis I: be not afraid."
When on the bed of death I lie,
And stretch my hands for aid;
Stand Thou before my closing eye,
"Be not afraid."
Before thy judgment-seat above,
When nature sinks dismayed,
O cheer me with that word of love
“'Tis I, be not afraid.”
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