The Christian Year Part 11

Wednesday before Easter.

Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done. _St. Luke_ xxii. 42.

O LORD my G.o.d, do thou Thy holy will- I will lie still- I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm, And break the charm Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast, In perfect rest.

Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile With thy false smile: I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways; Be silent, Praise, Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all That hear thy call.

Come, Self-devotion, high and pure, Thoughts that in thankfulness endure, Though dearest hopes are faithless found, And dearest hearts are bursting round.

Come, Resignation, spirit meek, And let me kiss thy placid cheek, And read in thy pale eye serene Their blessing, who by faith can wean Their hearts from sense, and learn to love G.o.d only, and the joys above.

They say, who know the life divine, And upward gaze with eagle eyne, That by each golden crown on high, Rich with celestial jewelry, Which for our Lord's redeemed is set, There hangs a radiant coronet, All gemmed with pure and living light, Too dazzling for a sinner's sight, Prepared for virgin souls, and them Who seek the martyr's diadem.

Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire, Must win their way through blood and fire.

The writhings of a wounded heart Are fiercer than a foeman's dart.

Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining, In Desolation unrepining, Without a hope on earth to find A mirror in an answering mind, Meek souls there are, who little dream Their daily strife an Angel's theme, Or that the rod they take so calm Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm.

And there are souls that seem to dwell Above this earth-so rich a spell Floats round their steps, where'er they move, From hopes fulfilled and mutual love.

Such, if on high their thoughts are set, Nor in the stream the source forget, If prompt to quit the bliss they know, Following the Lamb where'er He go, By purest pleasures unbeguiled To idolise or wife or child; Such wedded souls our G.o.d shall own For faultless virgins round His throne.

Thus everywhere we find our suffering G.o.d, And where He trod May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary Uplifted high Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light In open fight.

To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart He doth impart The virtue of his midnight agony, When none was nigh, Save G.o.d and one good angel, to a.s.suage The tempest's rage.

Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find All to thy mind, Think, who did once from Heaven to h.e.l.l descend, Thee to befriend: So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call, Thy best, thine all.

"O Father! not My will, but Thine be done"- So spake the Son.

Be this our charm, mellowing Earth's ruder noise Of griefs and joys: That we may cling for ever to Thy breast In perfect rest!

Thursday before Easter.

As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and I am come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore understand the matter, and consider the vision. _Daniel_ ix. 23.

"O HOLY mountain of my G.o.d, How do thy towers in ruin lie, How art thou riven and strewn abroad, Under the rude and wasteful sky!"

'Twas thus upon his fasting-day The "Man of Loves" was fain to pray, His lattice open toward his darling west, Mourning the ruined home he still must love the best.

Oh! for a love like Daniel's now, To wing to Heaven but one strong prayer For G.o.d'S new Israel, sunk as low, Yet flourishing to sight as fair, As Sion in her height of pride, With queens for handmaids at her side, With kings her nursing-fathers, throned high, And compa.s.sed with the world's too tempting blazonry.

'Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth, Nor torrid summer's sickly smile; The flashing billows of the south Break not upon so lone an isle, But thou, rich vine, art grafted there, The fruit of death or life to bear, Yielding a surer witness every day, To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway.

Oh! grief to think, that grapes of gall Should cl.u.s.ter round thine healthiest shoot!

G.o.d's herald prove a heartless thrall, Who, if he dared, would fain be mute!

E'en such is this bad world we see, Which self-condemned in owning Thee, Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take, For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason's sake.

What do we then? if far and wide Men kneel to CHRIST, the pure and meek, Yet rage with pa.s.sion, swell with pride, Have we not still our faith to seek?

Nay-but in steadfast humbleness Kneel on to Him, who loves to bless The prayer that waits for him; and trembling strive To keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive.

Dark frowned the future e'en on him, The loving and beloved Seer, What time he saw, through shadows dim, The boundary of th' eternal year; He only of the sons of men Named to be heir of glory then.

Else had it bruised too sore his tender heart To see G.o.d'S ransomed world in wrath and flame depart

Then look no more: or closer watch Thy course in Earth's bewildering ways, For every glimpse thine eye can catch Of what shall be in those dread days: So when th' Archangel's word is spoken, And Death's deep trance for ever broken, In mercy thou mayst feel the heavenly hand, And in thy lot unharmed before thy Savour stand.

Good Friday.

He is despised and rejected of men. _Isaiah_ liii. 3.

IS it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawned on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power For comfort than an angel's mirth?

That to the Cross the mourner's eye should turn Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run, "Who died to heal, is risen to save?"

Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends?

Yet so it is: for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till tempered by the Saviour's prayer, And with the Saviour's life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprisoned martyr's deathbed calm.

All turn to sweet-but most of all That bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

Then like a long-forgotten strain Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn, As in all lowly hearts he suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His pierced hands in vain would hide His face from rude reproachful gaze, His ears are open to abide The wildest storm the tongue can raise, He who with one rough word, some early day, Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.

But we by Fancy may a.s.suage The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed, That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

O! shame beyond the bitterest thought That evil spirit ever framed, That sinners know what Jesus wrought, Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed- That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Should wince and fret at this world's little loss.

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, Let not Thy blood on earth be spent- Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie, Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent, Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies.

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, O let my heart no further roam, 'Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears.

Long since-O call Thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.

Easter Eve.

As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy prisoners out of the pit wherein is no water. _Zechariah_ ix. 11.

AT length the worst is o'er, and Thou art laid Deep in Thy darksome bed; All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone Thy sacred form is gone; Around those lips where power and mercy hung, The dews of deaths have clung; The dull earth o'er Thee, and Thy foes around, Thou sleep'st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.

Sleep'st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled, At large among the dead?

Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice Wake Abraham to rejoice, Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls The thronging band of souls; That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.