The Christian Year Part 22

WISH not, dear friends, my pain away- Wish me a wise and thankful heart, With G.o.d, in all my griefs, to stay, Nor from His loved correction start.

The dearest offering He can crave His portion in our souls to prove, What is it to the gift He gave, The only Son of His dear love?

But we, like vexed unquiet sprights, Will still be hovering o'er the tomb, Where buried lie our vain delights, Nor sweetly take a sinner's doom.

In Life's long sickness evermore Our thoughts are tossing to and fro: We change our posture o'er and o'er, But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.

Were it not better to lie still, Let Him strike home and bless the rod, Never so safe as when our will Yields undiscerned by all but G.o.d?

Thy precious things, whate'er they be, That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain, Look to the Cross and thou shalt see How thou mayst turn them all to gain.

Lovest thou praise? the Cross is shame: Or ease? the Cross is bitter grief: More pangs than tongue or heart can frame Were suffered there without relief.

We of that Altar would partake, But cannot quit the cost-no throne Is ours, to leave for Thy dear sake- We cannot do as Thou hast done.

We cannot part with Heaven for Thee- Yet guide us in Thy track of love: Let us gaze on where light should be, Though not a beam the clouds remove.

So wanderers ever fond and true Look homeward through the evening sky, Without a streak of heaven's soft blue To aid Affection's dreaming eye.

The wanderer seeks his native bower, And we will look and long for Thee, And thank Thee for each trying hour, Wis.h.i.+ng, not struggling, to be free.

Seventeenth Sunday after Trinity.

Every man of the house of Israel that setteth up his idols in his heart, and putteth the stumbling-block of his iniquity before his face, and cometh to the prophet; I the Lord will answer him that cometh according to the mult.i.tude of his idols. _Ezekiel_ xiv. 4.

STATELY thy walls, and holy are the prayers Which day and night before thine altars rise: Not statelier, towering o'er her marble stairs, Flashed Sion's gilded dome to summer skies, Not holier, while around him angels bowed, From Aaron's censer steamed the spicy cloud,

Before the mercy-seat. O Mother dear, Wilt thou forgive thy son one boding sigh?

Forgive, if round thy towers he walk in fear, And tell thy jewels o'er with jealous eye?

Mindful of that sad vision, which in thought From Chebar's plains the captive prophet brought.

To see lost Sion's shame. 'Twas morning prime, And like a Queen new seated on her throne, G.o.d'S crowned mountain, as in happier time, Seemed to rejoice in suns.h.i.+ne all her own: So bright, while all in shade around her lay, Her northern pinnacles had caught th' emerging ray.

The dazzling lines of her majestic roof Crossed with as free a span the vault of heaven, As when twelve tribes knelt silently aloof Ere G.o.d His answer to their king had given, Ere yet upon the new-built altar fell The glory of the LORD, the Lord of Israel.

All seems the same: but enter in and see What idol shapes are on the wall portrayed: And watch their shameless and unholy glee, Who wors.h.i.+p there in Aaron's robes arrayed: Hear Judah's maids the dirge to Thammuz pour, And mark her chiefs yon orient sun adore.

Yet turn thee, son of man-for worse than these Thou must behold: thy loathing were but lost On dead men's crimes, and Jews' idolatries- Come, learn to tell aright thine own sins' cost,- And sure their sin as far from equals thine, As earthly hopes abused are less than hopes divine.

What if within His world, His Church, our LORD Have entered thee, as in some temple gate, Where, looking round, each glance might thee afford Some glorious earnest of thine high estate, And thou, false heart and frail, hast turned from all To wors.h.i.+p pleasure's shadow on the wall?

If, when the LORD of Glory was in sight, Thou turn thy back upon that fountain clear, To bow before the "little drop of light,"

Which dim-eyed men call praise and glory here; What dost thou, but adore the sun, and scorn Him at whose only word both sun and stars were born?

If, while around thee gales from Eden breathe, Thou hide thine eyes, to make thy peevish moan Over some broken reed of earth beneath, Some darling of blind fancy dead and gone, As wisely might'st thou in JEHOVAH'S fane Offer thy love and tears to Thammuz slain.

Turn thee from these, or dare not to inquire Of Him whose name is Jealous, lest in wrath He hear and answer thine unblest desire: Far better we should cross His lightning's path Than be according to our idols beard, And G.o.d should take us at our own vain word.

Thou who hast deigned the Christian's heart to call Thy Church and Shrine; whene'er our rebel will Would in that chosen home of Thine instal Belial or Mammon, grant us not the ill We blindly ask; in very love refuse Whate'er Thou knowest our weakness would abuse.

Or rather help us, LORD, to choose the good, To pray for nought, to seek to none, but Thee, Nor by "our daily bread" mean common food, Nor say, "From this world's evil set us free;"

Teach us to love, with CHRIST, our sole true bliss, Else, though in CHRIST'S own words, we surely pray amiss.

Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity.

I will bring you into the wilderness of the people, and there will I plead with you face to face. Like as pleaded with your fathers in the wilderness of the land of Egypt, so will I plead with you, saith the Lord G.o.d. _Ezekiel_ xx. 35, 36.

IT is so-ope thine eyes, and see- What viewest thou all around?

A desert, where iniquity And knowledge both abound.

In the waste howling wilderness The Church is wandering still, Because we would not onward press When close to Sion's hill.

Back to the world we faithless turned, And far along the wild, With labour lost and sorrow earned, Our steps have been beguiled.

Yet full before us, all the while, The shadowing pillar stays, The living waters brightly smile, The eternal turrets blaze,

Yet Heaven is raining angels' bread To be our daily food, And fresh, as when it first was shed, Springs forth the SAVIOUR'S blood.

From every region, race, and speech, Believing myriads throng, Till, far as sin and sorrow reach, Thy grace is spread along;

Till sweetest nature, brightest art, Their votive incense bring, And every voice and every heart Own Thee their G.o.d and King.

All own; but few, alas! will love; Too like the recreant band That with Thy patient spirit strove Upon the Red-sea strand.

O Father of long-suffering grace, Thou who hast sworn to stay Pleading with sinners face to face Through all their devious way:

How shall we speak to Thee, O LORD, Or how in silence lie?

Look on us, and we are abhorred, Turn from us, and we die.

Thy guardian fire, Thy guiding cloud, Still let them gild our wall, Nor be our foes and Thine allowed To see us faint and fall.

Too oft, within this camp of Thine, Rebellions murmurs rise; Sin cannot bear to see Thee s.h.i.+ne So awful to her eyes.

Fain would our lawless hearts escape, And with the heathen be, To wors.h.i.+p every monstrous shape In fancied darkness free.

Vain thought, that shall not be at all!

Refuse we or obey, Our ears have heard the Almighty's call, We cannot be as they.

We cannot hope the heathen's doom To whom G.o.d'S Son is given, Whose eyes have seen beyond the tomb, Who have the key of Heaven.

Weak tremblers on the edge of woe, Yet shrinking from true bliss, Our rest must be "no rest below,"

And let our prayer be this: