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The rod of heaven has touch'd them all,

The word from heaven is spoken: “Rise, shine, and sing, thou captive thrall; “ Are not thy fetters broken?

"The God who hallow'd thee and blest,
“Pronouncing thee all good—
“Hath He not all thy wrongs redrest,
“ And all thy bliss renew'd?

"Why mourn'st thou still as one bereft, "Now that th' eternal Son

"His blessed home in heaven hath left "To make thee all his own?”

Thou mourn'st because Sin lingers still
In Christ's new heaven and earth;
Because our rebel works and will
Stain our immortal birth :

Because, as Love and Prayer grow cold,
The Saviour hides his face,

And worldlings blot the temple's gold
With uses vile and base.

Hence all thy groans and travail pains,

Hence, till thy God return,

In Wisdom's ear thy blithest strains,

Oh! Nature, seem to mourn.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

And Simon answering said unto Him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net. And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net brake. St. Luke v. 5, 6.

"THE livelong night we've toiled in vain,
"But at thy gracious word

"I will let down the net again :

"Do Thou thy will, O Lord!"

So spake the weary fisher, spent
With bootless darkling toil,
Yet on his Master's bidding bent
For love and not for spoil.

So day by day and week by week,
In sad and weary thought,

They muse, whom God hath set to seek
The souls his Christ hath bought.

For not upon a tranquil lake

Our pleasant task we ply, Where all along our glistening wake The softest moonbeams lie;

Where rippling wave and dashing oar
Our midnight chant attend,
Or whispering palm-leaves from the shore
With midnight silence blend.

Sweet thoughts of peace, ye may not last:
Too soon some ruder sound

Calls us from where ye soar so fast
Back to our earthly round.

For wildest storms our ocean sweep:-
No anchor but the Cross

Might hold and oft the thankless deep
Turns all our toil to loss.

Full many a dreary anxious hour

We watch our nets alone

In drenching spray, and driving shower, And hear the night-bird's moan:

At morn we look, and nought is there;
Sad dawn of cheerless day!
Who then from pining and despair
The sickening heart can stay?

There is a stay-and we are strong;
Our Master is at hand,

To cheer our solitary song,

And guide us to the strand,

In his own time: but yet awhile
Our bark at sea must ride:

Cast after cast, by force or guile
All waters must be tried:

By blameless guile or gentle force,
As when He deign'd to teach
(The lode-star of our Christian course)
Upon this sacred beach.

Should e'er thy wonder-working grace Triumph by our weak arm,

Let not our sinful fancy trace

Aught human in the charm:

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