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The Mourners following the Cross.
At early dawn, the fresh spring dews to greet,
Slow speeds the work : the lingerers who shall save ? Thy task ere Sunday end, thy life before the grave.
the horror but in dream abide, Breathless to knock, and by the portal wait Where Saints have past behind their glorious Guide, Then feel, not hear, the sad drear word, “ Too late ?" Woe, in that hour, to souls that seek the gate Alone ! but deeper anguish, direr gloom, If to thy bosom clinging, child or mate,
Pupil or friend, the heaven-prepared room, Tardy through thee, should miss, and share the hopeless
ST. ANDREW AND HIS CROSS.
“ Where I am, there shall also my servant be."
O Holy Cross, on thee to hang
At Jesus' side, and feel thee sweet, And taste aright each healing pang, What Saint, what Virgin Martyr e'er was meet !
Two only of His own found grace
death He died to die.
Joyful they speed :—but how is this?
Why doubt they yet, in Jesus' power To grasp
their crown of hard won bliss ? Well have ye fought ; why faint in Victory's hour? Two brothers' hearts were they, the first
Who shone as stars in JESUS' Hand, For thee in Prayer and Fasting nurs'd, And bearing thee, dread Cross ! from land to land.
And now in wondrous sympathy,
When thou art nearer fain to draw, These who had yearn'd so long for thee Shrink from thy touch, and hide their eyes
He who denied-he dares not scale
With forward step thy holy stair.
And he, that saintly Elder meek,
Wont of old time to find and bring Brother or friend with Christ to speak, As worthier to behold the heart-searching King :
Ah little brook'd his lowly heart,
Such glorious crown should him reward.
He sought and found : and now where'er
Saint Andrew's holy Cross we see,
A martyr'd form we may discern,
There bound, there preaching : Image meet
And as we gaze may He impart
The grace to bear what He shall send, Yet stay the rash self-pleasing heart, Too forward with His Cross our penal woe to blend.
Holy Places and Things.
PREPARING FOR SUNDAY SERVICES.
“As they went to tell His Disciples, Jesus met them, saying, ' All hail.'”
BEHOLD, athwart our woodland nest,
And down our misty vale,
From his own bright and quiet rest The Sunday sun looks out, and seems to say, “All
True token of that brighter Day,
Which hailed, this matin hour,
The holy women on their way. They sought His Church in love, He met them in His