Canadian Wild Flowers Part 18

THE RISEN REDEEMER.

Rejoice now, O sorrowing bride, for he sleeps no longer. Let thy glad songs of praise and adoration reach the skies, for the Lord is not among the dead--he is risen. "Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion!

shout, O daughter of Jerusalem!" for thy Savior has burst the iron bands of death and come forth a mighty conqueror. For thy sins he laid himself down in the icy tomb; he rises again for thy justification.

For thy iniquities he suffered, died and was buried: he comes forth again that thou mayest be a sharer of his glory. He has hallowed the dreary tomb by his own dear presence, and now he has ascended to his Father and your Father, to his G.o.d and your G.o.d. He has taken his seat at the right hand of the Majesty on high, and there, despairing soul, trembling under the burden of sin, he pleads for thee (Heb. 7: 25). He points to the cross on Calvary, dripping with his own precious blood, and in a voice of tender compa.s.sion exclaims: "Father, I died for that wretched sinner; spare, oh spare him for my sake!" He has entered into the holy place by his own blood, having obtained eternal redemption for thee, O daughter of Zion.

DOST THOU REMEMBER ME?

O Thou whose footsteps are unknown, Whose path is on the sea,-- Whose footstool earth, and heaven whose throne, Dost Thou remember me?

O Thou whom winds and waves obey, At whose supreme command The shining worlds pursue their way, Or in their orbits stand,--

Thou at whose touch the hills disperse, And burning mountains flee, Thou Ruler of the Universe, Dost Thou remember me?

This world though fallen still is thine, And dearer far to-day Than all the countless...o...b.. that shine But never went astray.

For here the blessed Son of G.o.d Was born, and wept, and died; Our valleys and our hills he trod, And they are sanctified.

On Him my guilty soul relies, Through him I come to thee; Thou dost accept my sacrifice, Thou dost remember me!

'T IS I--BE NOT AFRAID.

Dark hung the clouds o'er Galilee; A lonely bark was on the sea, Where wild the billows played; Deep terror filled each trembling frame, When suddenly the accents came, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A martyr stood with tranquil air; He saw the stake, the fetters there, The f.a.gots all arrayed; But, though such darkness reigned around, He caught the sweet, the cheering sound, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A weary pilgrim roamed alone; For him was breathed no friendly tone, No friendly hand brought aid; But through the gloom so dark and drear, A gentle whisper reached his ear, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A mother knelt in anguish wild Beside a loved, a dying child, And tears in torrents strayed; A soothing voice breathed to her heart, In tones that bade despair depart, "'T is I--be not afraid!"

Upon a bed of pain and death A Christian faintly drew his breath, With spirit half dismayed; He heard a soft, a tender voice-- It caused that spirit to rejoice-- "'T is I--be not afraid!"

A penitent with streaming eye Raised unto heaven his doleful cry, And fervently he prayed; A brilliant light around him shone, And with it came a heavenly tone, "'T is I-be not afraid!"

And when the trump from yonder skies Shall bid the silent dead arise; When suns and stars shall fade; When thunders roar, and mountains fall; The saints shall hear above them all, "'T is I-be not afraid!"

THE ONLY PERFECT ONE.

I have just finished "D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation." How many n.o.ble characters are here brought to light! how many fervent Christians--how many lofty souls--how many holy hearts! The firm and undaunted Luther, the gentle Melancthon, the brave and courageous Zwingle, the mild Ecolampadi--us, the zealous and fiery Farel--and a host of others equally n.o.ble in the Master's cause. And yet they all had their faults; not one of them was perfect. Though we may sometimes feel to deplore their failings, yet surely it is a comfort to the poor Christian, beset with temptations and wandering daily from the straight and narrow path, to look back upon the lives of the best of earth's sons--the n.o.blest and the holiest,--and behold that even they sometimes went astray. It buoys up his soul with new hope and courage.

It bids it cast aside every thought of justification save by faith in Jesus Christ. It increases that faith, and directs the weary pilgrim to the feet of Him who alone is holy and perfect.--June 30,1852.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

I have heard music from a far-off land, Where sighs and sad laments are never heard; Where friends can meet and clasp each other's hand, But ne'er give utterance to that dreadful word Which has wrung hearts, and like a funeral knell Has tolled for our departed hopes--"_Farewell!_"

I have had visions of that blessed clime, Where fadeless flowers and fruits immortal grow-- Far, far beyond the troubled waves of--Time, Where streams of living waters sparkling flow; And while a pilgrim here I sadly roam, I love to call that blissful land my home.

And often with the pa.s.sing breeze I hear A sweet, a sad, perchance a warning tone: "Heaven calls for thee," falls on my willing ear; Oh! can the glorious message be mine own?

Can it be mine, unworthy child of clay, To win the realms of everlasting day?

Through Him who died, through Him who rose again, Through Him who lives, and lives forevermore, I may at last that blissful rest obtain, And I may stand upon the lovely sh.o.r.e Where youth and health on every cheek shall bloom, Beyond the reach of death and of the tomb.

Then hail sweet voice! sweet message to my heart!

Hail, land of love and home of endless peace!

Ye ties that bind me here, oh! quickly part, And shout, my soul, for joy to find release, With angels meet and sing in sweet accord, Forever blest, forever with the Lord!

THE REQUEST.

Come sit here close beside me and take my hand in thine, And tell me of the happy home I think will soon be mine; Oh, tell me of the river and of the garden fair, And of the tree of life that waves its healing branches there!

And tell me of the love of G.o.d who gave his only Son To die and suffer on the cross for deeds that I have done; And tell to me the holy words the blessed Jesus spake When from the courts of Heaven he came, an exile for my sake.

I love to hear how Mary sat at the Redeemer's feet,-- I wish I could have been there too, I would have shared her seat; I envy much the little group that met at Martha's board To listen to the gentle voice of him whom they adored.

I envy those rude fishermen who rowed him o'er the sea, Who walked with him and talked with him as I now talk to thee; I envy those who brought their sick, just at the close of day, That they might be restored to health when Jesus pa.s.sed that way.

Had I been living then I know I would have joined the crowd-- "Have mercy, oh have mercy, Lord!" I would have cried aloud.

Thou sayest that I still may go and tell him all my grief, And go I will; "Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief."

I know my heart is very hard, I feel the load within; But in the blood of Jesus Christ I wash away my sin; I lay my burden at his feet while to his cross I cling; I do so long to hear him speak death seems a blessed thing.

Now kneel here close beside me and lift thy voice in prayer That I may say his will be done whatever I may bear, Oh, I should love to _work_ for him, if that could be his will, But pray that I may be resigned--may suffer and be still.

COMPLETE IN HIM.