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CHRIST THE BREAD OF LIFE.

"I am the living bread which came down from heaven."— JOHN vi. 51.

ON Thee, on Thee,

Our souls, oh, Lord, must ever feed,
Support to frail humanity,

Thou art our bread indeed.

True bread from heaven,

Sent to sustain and to revive,
Abundantly and freely given,
That we may eat and live.

Oh, day by day

Without Thee, we should waste and sink In atrophy and slow decay,

And to a shadow shrink.

But living still

On Thee, our substance, we are made More strong, and feel thy power our will, And cannot waste or fade.

When ere we make

Thee the sole motive of our deed,
And love our haters for Thy sake,
"Tis then on Thee we feed !

And when we feel

Temptation into triumph turn'd,
Oh, is not then, through woe or weal,
The bread of life discern'd?

And when the sigh

Exhausts us, and we kneel in prayer,
And feel a heavenly solace nigh,

Our bread is surely there?

When in stern pain

We linger through some fever's heat,
And full of love will not complain,
That bread we surely eat'

Thus, feeding on

Our Lord, our Life, how sweet to live; How sweet to know when life is gone That Death new life can give.

How sweet to feel

That Bread of Life will still prevail, And an eternity reveal,

That cannot change or fail'

That in the Heaven

Of Heavens, and by the Godhead's throne, That bread will be to angels given;

Their life and strength alone.

Oh, LORD, that name

Means a Bread Giver,-shed, oh, shed

Thy love on us, on earth the same,

Be Thou our DAILY BREAD.

W. MARTIN.

CHRIST THE LIVING WATER.

COME hither, ye that thirst,

Come to the waters free,

With a blithesome bound and a joyful burst,

Like a bird in its liberty.

Drink at this holy spring,
That flows for ever bright,

Oh, hasten in faith, make wing, make wing, "Tis a well of sweet delight.

G

Earth is a desert spot,

Pleasure and joy soon sear;

Away to the kind, cool, fountain grot,
Pure, beautiful, and clear.

Oh, pilgrims tired and faint,

Weary, and spent, and lone,

Who walk through earth in a sad complaint, Here turn as you journey on.

And you that droop and sink,

Parch'd with the world's fierce glare, Come hither in holy delight and drink, Nor wither in dark despair.

This living water flows

Not heedlessly nor vain ;

Drink, it a fountain of life bestows,

Ye never can thirst again.

Nature, though parch'd and wild,

Sterile, and drear, and rude,

Refresh'd by this spring hath sweetly smiled, Throughout its solitude.

Man's heart, that barren place,

Shall blossom like the rose,

Grow fertile in love, and abound in grace,
Wherever that water flows.

Shall blossom on in praise,

Give incense forth in prayer,

Ten thousand things of delight shall raise, All beautiful and fair.

Oh, yes, that darksome blot

Of sorrow, sin, and pain,

Shall spring once more as an Eden spot,
Where God may walk again.

And every plant shall show

Clusters of goodly fruit,

While all who gaze, in delight may know
That Christ is at its root.

What fruit each plant may bring

Is his, and only his;

For He the lovely and constant spring

Of living water is.

W. MARTIN.

CHRIST THE PHYSICIAN.

HEALER of hearts,

Solace of bruised spirits, Comforter,
Whose presence ever unto those that err
A balın imparts,

Whene'er the soul

Would come in all the burden of its sighs,
Its sad diseases, cruel maladies,

To be made whole.

Thou walkest still,

As once in old Judea, with thine hand
Stretch'd forth in love, to heal throughout the land
All, all who will.

Thy touch so pure,

Thy love so answering each repentant groan,
Thy spirit stirring through us,-this alone
Can work a cure.

Stricken and stung,

Smote with a death-plague, writhing in distress,
Like stiff neck'd Israel in the wilderness,
When time was young;

Cast down in pain,

And dying daily, yet on thee we gaze,
And to the cross in faith our spirits raise,
And live again.

That scorpion,

Fiery and full of poison, whose rank breath
Is dire contagion,-everlasting death,—
Is overthrown.

The leprosy

Of the sin-bloated heart, whose plague-spot grows
Like the fierce canker that destroys the rose,
Is heal'd by thee.

Within the breast

Of tyrant man, ten thousand tempests wage
Unceasing war, and daily sport and rage,
And know no rest.

In the alarm

Thou com'st in love, and "Peace, be still!" is heard; The whirlwind is obedient to thy word,

And all is calm.

The dark and blind,

Groping about in deadly sin's worst blight,
Receive from thee more than the body's light-
Light to the mind.

Then drop away

The scales of error from the soul, the links
Of ignorance are burst, the spirit drinks
The beam of day.

For thou art then

The day-spring from on high, in glory rife,
The way, the truth, the everlasting life,
And light of men.

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