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Think of the pride and seorn, the taunting

sneer, The hellish enmity, the savage leer, The bitter hatred of the zealous Jew, The wavering weakness of His chosen few; Foxes have holes, birds of the air a nest, But their Creator hath not where to rest. Cradled within a manger, left to share With the brute beasts a place of shelter

there As years advanced, so care and sorrow prest, Dimmed His meek eye, and filled His holy

breast; Despised, rejected He, and full of grief, No hand, no loving heart to give relief: Yet not His own, but other's sins He mourned, To cleanse their crimson stains His Spirit

burned To ease the heavy laden, and to feel Each mourner's woe, each stricken heart to heal.

From every pore oozed the dark drops of

blood, In that lone garden, when the fearful flood Of all His Father's wrath o'erwhelmed His

soul, As o'er His head the raging billows roll. Sinner, come hither—know thy heavy guilt, Crushed that bowed head, that willing life

blood spilt; Forced from His quiv'ring lips the bitter cry Of utter woe, and writhing agony, (When in deep anguish hanging on the tree)

My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?"
Sinner, still gaze, and cast a look of faith
On that slain Lamb, (who with His dying

Prayed for His murderers,) lay thy load of sin
Upon thy loving Saviour, and begin
Meekly to follow Him, and bear the cross,
Counting all else but worthless dung and dross;

Seeking to do His will, to know His love, Longing to dwell, to reign with Him above; So shall His Spirit's unction breathe on thee, And fill thy soul with heavenly sanctity.


“Ye are all the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the night, nor of darkness. Therefore, let us not sleep, as do others, but let us watch and be sober.”—1 Thess. v. 5, 6.

FOND, busy dreamer, cease to weave

A web of fancied joy,
Nor o'er fragile texture grieve,

'Tis but an empty toy.

This world can have no rest for thee,

No happiness below;
Life is a sad reality

Of trouble, care, and woe.

Say, can the fighting soldier sleep

Upon the battle-field ?
Or, 'midst the din of combat, keep
His slumbering eyelids sealed ?

Then cease to sorrow o'er the past,

The future leave with God; With thy loins girded, follow fast

The path which Christ hath trod.

Oh! watch and pray, thou ransomed one,

Nor lay thy weapons down,
Till fought the fight, the victory won,

Christ shall bestow the crown.


“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night."-2 Sam. xxi. 10.

HUSH! for a sound of dirge-like music floats
On the low breeze, while in its pealing notes
Lies the deep tenderness of woman's woe,
As mournfully those plaintive wailings flow.
See, on the summit of the tall rock's brow
Sits a lone female figure, bending low
Over the dead; her dark hair sweeps the

And casts a sable hue her form around,
No ravening beast by night, no bird by day,
Shall mark those mouldering bodies for their


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