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Author of being! life-sustaining king!
Oh! 'tis a sight the soul to cheer,
Mant. Thrice blessed they who dwell
Within thine house, my God,
And still the floor is trod
For they shall see our God;
Their soul is Christ's abode.
Dipped in the sea of light,
From darkness, here and dreariness,
We ask not full repose,
Our trial hour of woes.
The gate of Heaven unclose?
Thou that created'st all! Thou fountain
Of our sun's light-who dwellest far
From man, beyond the farthest star,
We bless thee, Father, that we are!
For its immortal date decreeing;
Which is the being of our being!
For its increase-for corn and wine:
We have the promise of th' eternal truth,
Those who live well, and pious paths pursue,
To man and to their Maker true;
Can never miss
Where joy in full perfection flows,
Through the vast round of beatific love,
No, 't is in vain to seek for bliss,
For bliss can ne'er be found 'Till we arrive where Jesus is,
And tread on heav'nly ground.
When we have slept that dreamless sleep,
Which dearest hearts must sever; O may we wake no more to weep,
But live in bliss for ever. John Linden.
True bliss, the flower of Paradise,
Lives not in this ungenial clime;
Beyond the ravages of time;
W. J. Brock.
Why seek it here below?
With love divine that glow.
And watered by the dews
How lively are its hues!
He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind.-Luke, iv. 18.
Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart.-Ephesians, iv. 18.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?" I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's works, or his own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
Is kingly, thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve, who only stand and wait.”
There is a poor Blind Man, who every day,
In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,
Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane,
Through the long year! Oh! the wide world is cold, As dark to him; here, he no longer feels
His sad bereavement-Faith and Hope uphold
As thro' the aisles the choral anthems roll,
Oh! happy, if the Rich-the Vain—the Proud
· Lisle Bowles.
I see, and yet I see not; outward things
Are visible unto me: I behold
The glories of the summer manifold;
The forests rich with their autumnal gold; The creatures beautiful, that spread their wings
In the warm sunshine; blossoms that unfold Bright as man's hopes and vain imaginings. The glories of the universe are spread
Before me, and I see them with delight: Yet am I blind of heart, and cold, and dead
To spiritual things. God grant me light To understand, and warmth to feel, and grace Thy message to receive—Thy wondrous power to trace.
But in God's temple the great lamp is out,
The lingering hours by circumstance and sound, And break, with gentle hymns, the solemn silence round.
Yet still life's better light shines out above!
And only sighs, condemned so long to wait, Baffled and helpless still; beyond the Temple gate!