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The Stream of Time. CHILD of the dust ! if e'er thine eye
Has watch'd the torrent's flow, Where, distant from its source on high,
It sweeps the vale below,
Pervade its current strong;
And yet it speeds along. 'Tis noiseless thus, yet swift as thought
The stream of time rolls by ;
His precious moments fly.
Yon glorious orb has shone ;
And, lo! a year is gone.
To Thee alone to spend,
When life's short course shall end:
To build my only trust,
Was once allied to dust.
In silent speed away, My soul shall view the ebbing tide .
But know no sad dismay ;
For still my Saviour-God shall be
At hand, though unperceived,
The Holy Scriptures. OH Book! infinite sweetness ! let my heart
Suck every letter, and a honey gain
A full eternity: thou art a mass
take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass That mends the looker's eyes : this is the well
That washes what it shows. Who can endear Thy praise too much ? thou art heaven's lieger
here, Working against the states of death and hell.
Thou art joy's handsel : heaven lies flat in thee,
Subject to every mounter's bended knee. Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine, But all the constellations of the story.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion Under a third, that ten leaves off doth lie.
Then, as dispersed herbs do watch a potion, These three make up some Christian's destiny. Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring, And in another make me understood.
Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss : This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.
The Physician Dies to make his
Patient Live. W HEN I remember Christ our burden
bears, I look for glory, but find misery; I look for joy, but find a sea of tears;
I look that we should live, and find Him die;
I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry: Thus what I look, I cannot find so well; Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell; These banks so narrow are, these streams so
highly swell. Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin ;
Suffers for us—and our joys spring in this ; Suffers to death, here is his manhood seen;
Suffers to rise-and here his Godhead is :
A tree was first the instrument of strife,
Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute; A tree is now the instrument of life,
Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit:
Ah! fatal tree, and yet O blessed fruit! That death to Him, this life to us doth give; Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, And the Physician dies to make his patient live.
Sweet Eden was the arbour of delight,
Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew; Sad Gethsemane, the bower of baleful night, Where Christ a health of poison for us drew,
Yet all our honey in that poison grew : So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, And Christ from bitter venom could again Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of
A man was first the author of our fall,
A Man is now the author of our rise :
A garden is the place He pays our price:
And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile; So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his
The dewy night had with her frosty shade
Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground Sparkled in ice; only the Lord that made
All for Himself, Himself dissolved found,
The Transfiguration. HAIL! King of glory, clad in robes of light,
Outshining all we here call bright!