Isaac on Moriah. We may but stay without, and wondering pray; The knife in Abraham's hand upraised to slay, Weak as the echo of some distant knell, Borne now and then on breathing winds of eve, Comes to our ear the sound :-"I see full well 227 The fire and wood; but who the Lamb will give ?" Fitful and faint, should Angel bless our dream, Not even to dwellers on the mystic height, Not to the Saints, is full enlightening given : The Cross, they hold by, towers beyond their sight, On the hill peak opens a deeper heaven. Yea, though in one were gathered all the woes What were it all, to match one drop of Thine, One bitter drop, poured on Thy mountain here In Thine own hour? O joy! that Blood is mine :— For us it flowed, even as for Saint and seer. Well may we mourn our dull cold heart, and eye Sees such a little way: yet kneel we nigh : He who beside His own the Cross allows Of penitential grief;-who to each Saint Calls from His height of woe ;-His bleeding brows Will meekly droop to hear our breathing faint. Lessons of Grace. 229 2. SONG OF THE MANNA-GATHERERS. "This is the bread which the Lord hath given you to eat." COMRADES, haste! the tent's tall shading Lies along the level sand Far and faint: the stars are fading O'er the gleaming western strand. Airs of morning Freshen the bleak burning land. Haste, or ere the third hour glowing O'er the moist pearls, now bestrowing Dews celestial, Left when earthly dews exhale. Ere the bright good hour be wasted, Το your tent bring all untasted ;— To thy Father, nothing loth, Bring thy treasure: Trust thy God, and keep thy troth. Trust Him: care not for the morrow: Should thine omer overflow, And some poorer seek to borrow, Be thy gift nor scant nor slow. Wouldst thou store it? Ope thine hand, and let it go. Trust His daily work of wonder, When the prophet's face grew bright. Song of the Manna-Gatherers. Think, the Glory yet is nigh thee, Power unfelt arrests thine arm, Love aye watching, to deny thee Stores abounding to thy harm. Rich and needy, Are all levelled by Love's charm. Sing we thus our songs of labour For our God and for our neighbour, Till six times the morn have smiled, And our vessels Are with two-fold treasure piled. For that one, that heavenly morrow, Savings are but thrown away. Hoarded manna !— Moths and worms shall on it prey. 231 |