“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
Tell of the peace the Amighty sends
On the


heart and mind,

When they, on whom our souls should lean,

The wondrous joy declare,
How to God's Altar they have been

And found their Saviour there,

Alas ! too often, worldly wise,

We scorn what they reveal,
We will not see with others' eyes,

Ourselves would touch and feel.

Thus many a precious day, month, year,

The blessing we delay :
It comes at last with saddened cheer,

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,
A shade of pity more than blame :-

“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,
Nor his still home in shelter choose

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,
How the bright hues together run,
Around where late the waning sun

Sank in his evening cloud.
Or eastward turn thee, and admire
How linger yet the showers of fire,
Deep in each fold, high on each spire

Of yonder mountain proud.

Thou seest it not : an envious screen,
A fluttering leaflet, hangs between
Thee and that fair mysterious scene,
A veil too near thine

One finger's breadth at hand will mar
A world of light in Heaven afar,
A mote eclipse a glorious star,

An eyelid hide the sky.

And while to clear the view we stay,
Lo ! the bright hour hath pass'd away ;
A twilight haze, all dim and grey,

Hath quench'd the living gleam.
Remember this, thou little child,
In hours of Prayer, when fancies wild
Betwixt thee and thy Saviour mild

Come floating on life's stream.

O shame, O grief, when earth’s rude toys,
An opening door, a breath, a noise,
Drive from the heart th' eternal joys,

Displace the Lord of Love !
For half a prayer perchance on high
We soar, and heaven seems bright and nigh,
But ah ! too soon frail heart and eye

Sink down and earthward rove.

The Sunday garment glittering gay
The Sunday heart will steal away.
Then haste thee, ere the fond glance stray,

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.

His very

shrines, this week of woe, Will doff their rich attire, and show As mourners ; fear we then to go

In glad and festal guise.
Yea, when the funeral days are o'er,
And altars shine in gold once more,
I bid thee lavish all thy store

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.

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