No need for her to weep
Like Thracian wives of yore, Save when in rapture still and deep
Her thankful heart runs o'er.
They mourn'd to trust their treasure on the main, Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide : Welcome to her the peril and the pain,
For well she knows the home where they may safely hide.
She joys that one is born Into a world forgiven,
Her Father's household to adorn,
And dwell with her in Heaven.
So have I seen, in Spring's bewitching hour, When the glad Earth is offering all her best, Some gentle maid bend o'er a cherish'd flower, And wish it worthier on a Parent's heart to rest.
Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you: but if I depart, I will send him unto you. St. John xvi. 7.
MY Saviour, can it ever be
That I should gain by losing Thee? The watchful mother tarries nigh,
Though sleep have clos'd her infant's eye; For should he wake, and find her gone, She knows she could not bear his moan. But I am weaker than a child,
And Thou art more than mother dear; Without Thee Heaven were but a wild: How can I live without Thee here!
""Tis good for you, that I should go, "You lingering yet awhile below;❞— "Tis thine own gracious promise, Lord! Thy saints have prov'd the faithful word,
When Heaven's bright boundless avenue Far open'd on their eager view, And homeward to thy Father's throne, Still lessening, brightening on their sight, Thy shadowy car went soaring on;
They track'd Thee up th' abyss of light.
Thou bidd'st rejoice; they dare not mourn, But to their home in gladness turn, Their home and God's, that favour'd place, Where still he shines on Abraham's race,
In prayers and blessings there to wait Like suppliants at their monarch's gate, Who bent with bounty rare to aid
The splendours of his crowning day, Keeps back awhile his largess, made More welcome for that brief delay :
In doubt they wait, but not unblest; They doubt not of their Master's rest, Nor of the gracious will of Heaven- Who gave his Son, sure all has given— But in ecstatic awe they muse
What course the genial stream may choose,
And far and wide their fancies rove, And to their height of wonder strain, What secret miracle of love
Should make their Saviour's going gain.
The days of hope and prayer are past, The day of comfort dawns at last, The everlasting gates again
Roll back, and, lo! a royal train— From the far depth of light once more The floods of glory earth-ward pour : They part like show'r-drops in mid air, But ne'er so soft fell noon-tide shower, Nor ev'ning rainbow gleam'd so fair To weary swains in parched bower.
Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame Through cloud and breeze unwavering came, And darted to its place of rest
On some meek brow of Jesus blest.
Nor fades it yet, that living gleam, And still those lambent lightnings stream; Where'er the Lord is, there are they;
In every heart that gives them room,
They light His altar every day, Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.
Soft as the plumes of Jesus' Dove They nurse the soul to heavenly love : The struggling spark of good within, Just smother'd in the strife of sin, They quicken to a timely glow,
The pure flame spreading high and low. Said I, that prayer and hope were o'er? Nay, blessed Spirit! but by Thee The Church's prayer finds wings to soar, The Church's hope finds eyes to see.
Then, fainting soul, arise and sing; Mount, but be sober on the wing; Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer, Be sober, for thou art not there; Till Death the weary spirit free,
Thy God hath said, 'Tis good for thee To walk by faith and not by sight:
Take it on trust a little while; Soon shalt thou read the mystery right In the full sunshine of His smile.
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