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MISTRUST OF ELDERS.
“Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed."
When holy books, when loving friends,
When parents grave and kind
heart and mind,
When they, on whom our souls should lean,
The wondrous joy declare,
And found their Saviour there,
Alas ! too often, worldly wise,
We scorn what they reveal,
Ourselves would touch and feel.
Thus many a precious day, month, year,
The blessing we delay :
He justly dims His ray.
Seven days, we read, a Saint of old
Dreamed on in doubt alone : Seven days of hope and joy untold
For evermore were gone.
And when at last the all-gracious Lord
Vouchsafed the awful sign, Made answer to his secret word
And showed the Wounds divine,
Even with that light of love there came
A soft yet warning cloud,
“Behold thy prayer allowed.
My glorious Wounds I show to thee,
Even here in earth's dull light; But happier they, who wait to see,
Till heaven has purged their sight.”
Alas, that man his breath should lose
In wayward, doubting race,
Where Thou hast set his place !
“And a very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees, and strawed them in the way."
(For Palm Sunday.)
Look westward, pensive little one,
Sank in his evening cloud.
Of yonder mountain proud.
Thou seest it not : an envious screen,
An eyelid hide the sky.
And while to clear the view we stay,
Hath quench'd the living gleam.
Come floating on life's stream.
O shame, O grief, when earth’s rude toys,
Displace the Lord of Love !
Sink down and earthward rove.
The Sunday garment glittering gay
Thy precious robes unfold,
And cast before thy Saviour's feet :
spare not with thy best to greet, Nor dread the dust of Sion's street,
'Tis jewels all and gold.
shrines, this week of woe, Will doff their rich attire, and show As mourners ; fear we then to go
In glad and festal guise.
In fearless sacrifice.
gorgeous hues by sinners worn, Our pride and our good Angel's scorn,His pavement let them now adorn,
Or with His daylight blend. His palace court hath order blest, When from His Throne of earthly rest In glory beams th' immortal Guest,
We to the dust descend.