For every wicked, idle thought,
And every word I say?

2 Yes, every secret of my heart
Shall shortly be made known,
And I receive my just desert
For all that I have done.

3 How careful, then, ought I to live!
With what religious fear!

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Who such a strict account must give
For my behavior here.

C. M.
Another Life.

1 THE stars are shining over head,
In the clear frosty night;

So will they shine when we are dead,
As countless and as bright.

2 For brief the time and short the space That e'en the proudest have,

Ere they conclude their various race
In silence and the grave.

3 But the pure soul from dust shall rise,
By our great Savior's aid,

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When the last trump shall rend the skies,
And all the stars shall fade.

C. M.

Through Death to Life.

1 THROUGH Sorrow's night and danger's path,
Amid the deepening gloom,
We, soldiers of a heavenly King,
Are marching to the tomb.

2 There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.
3 Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust
The storms of life shall beat.

4 Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,
The vital spark shall lie ;

For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise, To seek its kindred sky.

1 WHEN power divine, in mortal form,
Hushed with a word the raging storm;
In soothing accents, Jesus said,
"Lo, it is I; be not afraid."

2 So when in silence nature sleeps,
And his lone watch the mourner keeps,
One thought shall every pang remove
Trust, feeble man, thy Maker's love.
3 God calms the tumult and the storm;
He rules the seraph and the worm:
No creature is by him forgot,

Of those who know or know him not.

4 And when the last dread hour shall come, While shuddering Nature waits her doom, This voice shall wake the pious dead, — "Lo, it is I; be not afraid."

1 LORD, may I ne'er in youth be led
In Sin's dark path to stray,
may I early learn to tread
In Wisdom's pleasant way.

But

2 What sorrows may my steps attend I never can foretell;

But since my Maker is my friend,
I know that all is well.

3 Father, whatever grief or ill
For me may be in store,
Make me submissive to thy will,
And I would ask no more.

4 Then still, as seasons hasten by,
I will for heaven prepare ;

That God may take me, when I die,
To be forever there.

1 VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, O, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

2 Hark! they whisper! angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away."
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirit, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 3 The world recedes; it disappears. Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears With sounds seraphic ring.

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Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly!
O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?

C. M.

Death.

1 0 SILENTLY, O silently,

The moon-bean falls on me:

As silently, as silently

It falls on land and sea.

2 O silently, still silently

Creation's wings wax bright,
As silently, as silently,

Bright morn succeeds to night.
3 0, let my soul, thus silently,
Depart from earthly clay;
Thus silently and beamingly
Enter the realms of day.

lls.

I would not live alway.

1 I WOULD not live alway: I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the

way.

I would not live alway: no

tomb;

welcome the

Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its

gloom.

2 Who, who would live alway, away from his

God,

Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode! Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,

And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;

3 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,

Their Savior and brethren transported to

greet;

While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,

And the smile of the Lord is the life of the

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soul.

7s. 61.

ANGELS ever bright and fair,
Take, O take me to your care;
Speed to your own courts my flight,
Clad in robes of virgin white.
Angels ever bright and fair,
Take, O take me to your care.

S. M.
Death.

1 THE Swift-declining day,

How fast its moments fly!
While evening's broad and gloomy shade
Gains on the western sky.

2 Ye mortals, mark its pace,
And use the hours of light;