And do not thy dread mysteries,
Like unto light's excess, deal blindness to the eyes? MOST MERCIFUL-Most Gracious God! To thy dear love alone we flee, And Thou wilt not forsake this clod Though dark and drear it still may be; While it can fix a hope on Thee, Thou art still bent to hear the prayer, To cheer this darkness, fill the breast With buoyant faith, whose wings may bear It on to peace, and joy, and rest,
And waft the fleeting Spirit softly to the bless'd!
PEACE OF MIND.
THOU hidden love of God, whose height,
Whose depth unfathom'd no man knows,
I see from far thy beauteous light;
In secret sigh for thy repose;
My heart is pain'd, nor can it be
At rest, till it find rest in thee.
Thy secret voice invites me still
The sweetness of thy yoke to prove;
And fain I would; but though my will
Seem fix'd, yet wide my passions rove;
Yet hind'rances strew all the way,
I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.
'Tis mercy all, that thou hast brought
My soul to seek its peace in thee:
Yet while I seek, but find thee not,
No peace that wandering soul shall see;
Oh! when shall all my wanderings end,
And all my steps to Jesus tend?
Is there a thing beneath the sun
That strives with thee my heart to share?
Ah! tear it thence, and reign alone,
The Lord of every motion there.
Then shall my heart from earth be free,
When it hath found repose in thee.
Each moment draw from earth away
My heart, that lowly waits thy call;
Speak to my inmost soul, and say,
"I am thy love, thy God, thy all."
Bless'd are the souls that thirst for grace,
Hunger and long for righteousness;
They shall be well supplied, and fed
With living streams and living bread.
C. WESLEY.
BEHOLD where, breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands,
His weeping followers gathering round,
Receive his last commands.
From that mild Teacher's parting lips
What tender accents fell;
The gentle precept which he gave
Became its author well.
"Blest is the man whose softening heart
Feels all another's pain!
To whom the supplicating eye
Was never raised in vain.
120 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
"Whose breast expands with generous warmth, A stranger's woes to feel;
And bleeds in pity o'er the wound
He wants the power to heal.
"He spreads his kind supporting arms
To every child of grief;
His secret bounty largely flows,
And brings unask'd relief.
"To gentle offices of love
His feet are never slow;
He views through mercy's melting eye
A brother in a foe.
"Peace from the bosom of his God,
My peace to him I give:
And, when he kneels before the throne,
His trembling soul shall live.
"To him protection shall be shown,
And mercy from above
Descend on those who thus fulfil
The perfect law of love."
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be death?
The world recedes! it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death? where is thy sting?
WHEN these corrupting particles are laid
Into the grave, and rank corruption feeds,
Like a gross glutton, upon eyes and cheeks,
Lips that once shamed the coral, and the brow
Immaculate as marble,-oh, how dread
And terrible would be the thought, to die
Marr'd thus! and all the beauteous lineaments
Scatter'd and toss'd, confounded, mix'd, and crush'd,
And lost in darkness! What despairing woe,
Misery and pain unutterable, and dark dread,
Usurps the mental kingdom of the soul
Endow'd with no assurances from heaven-
Lineally descended from the throne
And focus of all truth! We have a charter,
Not drawn from nature's works, drawn from our God,
Death cannot cancel! Spirit there is made
Immortal-hath its liberty secured
On faith's eternal basis. Shall we then
Have fear for that dread hour, and shudder when
Nature gives tokens through the failing sense
How near we are to brittle life's dark close?
Unblenching we shall stand in that dread hour,
Looking all stedfast toward our heavenly home,
Like birds upon the wing to brighter climes.
Then let these atoms part, and be resolved
Through all the elements, be borne about
With winds, and made a portion of the tempest,
Or principle of the immortal thunders!
Let lightnings make dread havoc with their forms,
While change unceasing, multifarious,
And infinite, still rule them age by age-
Or fire, rain, vapour, snow, and hail, and storm,
The direful tumults and convulsive throes
Of wayward nature, claim them in their turns
For ministers of health or pestilence-
Let them appear in sickly fires, to mope
About in mists and exhalations foul,
Like the unquiet ghosts of murder'd men
Through clammy vaults and churchyards, in the fell
And haggard hour of midnight, making all
The stagnant air mephitical, and sowing
Death on the earliest breathings of the morn!
Still will the soul be stedfast, fix'd, and calm;
Corruption is not hers-death cannot mar,
Annihilation cannot reach her!-God
Attracts her only; towards him she flies;
For she is still a glorious particle
Of His pure essence; and resolved from dust,
Kindred affinity still works, and gives
Her back unto the source from whence she sprung!
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