Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free!

Rich conquest waits them: - the tempestuous

sea

Of ignorance, that ran so rough and high, And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, These good men humble by a few bare words, And calm with fear of God's divinity.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

O LOVE, WHO FORMEDST ME. "Liebe, die Du mich zum Bilde."

O LOVE, who formedst me to wear
The image of thy Godhead here;
Who soughtest me with tender care
Through all my wanderings wild and drear ;
O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

O Love, who ere life's earliest dawn
On me thy choice hast gently laid;
O Love, who here as man wast born
And wholly like to us wast made;
O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

O Love, who once in time wast slain,
Pierced through and through with bitter

woe;

O Love, who wrestling thus didst gain,
That we eternal joy might know;

O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

O Love, of whom is truth and light,

The Word and Spirit, life and power,
Whose heart was bared to them that smite,
To shield us in our trial hour;
O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

O Love, who thus hath bound me fast,
Beneath that gentle yoke of thine;
Love, who hast conquered me at last
And rapt away this heart of mine:
O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

O Love, who lovest me for aye,

Who for my soul dost ever plead;
O Love, who didst my ransom pay,
Whose power sufficeth in my stead:
O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

O Love, who once shall bid me rise
From out this dying life of ours;

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O Love, who once o'er yonder skies
Shalt set me in the fadeless bowers;
O Love, I give myself to thee,
Thine ever, only thine to be.

JOHANN SCHEFFLER, 1657. Translated by
CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1858.

LIFT UP YOUR HEADS.

"Macht hoch die Thür

PSALM XXIV.

George WeisSEL, pastor of the Rossgarten Church at Königsberg, was born in Prussia in 1590, and died at Königsberg, Aug. 1, 1635. This hymn is said to have been written when the Thirty Years' War was raging.

LIFT up your heads. ye mighty gates,
Behold the King of glory waits;
The King of kings is drawing near,
The Saviour of the world is here.
Life and salvation doth he bring,
Wherefore rejoice, and gladly sing

Praise, O my God. to thee!
Creator, wise is thy decree!

The Lord is just, a helper tried,
Mercy is ever at his side,
His kingly crown is holiness,
His sceptre, pity in distress,
The end of all our woe he brings;
Wherefore the earth is glad, and sings
Praise, O my God, to thee !

O Saviour, great thy deeds shall be!

Oh, blest the land, the city blest,
Where Christ the ruler is confest!
Oh, happy hearts and happy homes
To whom this King in triumph comes!
The cloudless Sun of joy he is,
Who bringeth pure delight and bliss;
Praise, O my God, to thee!
Comforter, for thy comfort free!

Fling wide the portals of your heart,
Make it a temple set apart
From earthly use for heaven's employ,
Adorned with prayer and love and joy;
So shall your Sovereign enter in,
And new and nobler life begin.

Praise, O my God, be thine,
For word, and deed, and grace divine.

Redeemer, come! I open wide
My heart to thee; here, Lord, abide!
Let me thy inner presence feel,
Thy grace and love in me reveal,

LORD, OPEN MY EYES.

"Hüter! wird die Nacht der Sünden."

O WATCHMAN, will the night of sin
Be never past?

O watchman, doth the day begin

To dawn upon thy straining sight at last?
Will it dispel

Erelong the mists of sense wherein I dwell?

Now all the earth is bright and glad
With the fresh morn ;

But all my heart is cold and dark and sad; Sun of the soul, let me behold thy dawn! Come, Jesus, Lord!

Oh, quickly come, according to thy word!
Do we not live in those blest days
So long foretold,

When thou shouldst come to bring us light and grace?

And yet I sit in darkness as of old,

Pining to see

Thy glory; but thou still art far from me.

Long since thou cam'st to be the light
Of all men here;

And yet in me is nought but blackest night. Wilt thou not then to me, thine own, appear? Shine forth and bless

My soul with vision of thy righteousness?

If thus in darkness ever left,

Can I fulfil

The works of light, while of all light bereft? How shall I learn in love and meekness still To follow thee,

And all the sinful works of darkness flee?

The light of reason cannot give
Life to my soul;

Jesus alone can make me truly live.
One glance of his can make my spirit whole.
Arise, and shine

On this poor longing, waiting heart of mine!

Single and clear, not weak or blind,
The eye must be,

To which thy glory shall an entrance find; For if thy chosen ones would gaze on thee, No earthly screen

Between their souls and thee must intervene.

I AM THE ROSE OF SHARON.

I KNOW a flower so sweet and fair,
There is no earthly blossom
With Sharon's rose that may compare ;
Fain would I wear

Its fragrance in my bosom.

It is the true and living Word,

Whom God himself hath given To be our guide, our light, our Lord, In whom is stored

All hope for earth and heaven.

Hark! how he saith - "Come unto me, Ye burdened and sad-hearted; Granted your heart's desire shall be, And pardon free

To mourning souls imparted.

"This is my body that I give

For you in mercy broken; Whate'er is mine with it receive,

If ye believe

And keep what I have spoken.

"This is my blood once shed for you, Ye hearts, now faint and sinking; Drink of my cup, and find anew

Fresh strength to do

My bidding without shrinking."

Ah, Lord, by thy most bitter woes We pray thee ne'er forsake us ; Since thou couldst even die for those Who were thy foes,

Thy children deign to make us.

And keep us ever close to thee,

Give courage to confess thee, However dark the time may be,

Till safe and free

In heaven at last we bless thee. CATHERINE WINKWORTH.

AWAY WITH SORROW'S SIGH.

"Jam desinant suspiria."

ISAAC WILLIAMS, one of the unsuccessful candidates for the professorship of poetry at Oxford upon the retirement of Keble, was one of the many translators of the "Dies Iræ." His poems were reprinted in America. His birth occurred in Wales in 1802, and he died May 1, 1865. He was an associate of Newman, Keble, and Pusey in the Tractarian movement.

AWAY with sorrow's sigh,

Our prayers are heard on high;

And through heaven's crystal door
On this our earthly floor

Comes meek-eyed Peace to walk with poor mortality.

In dead of night profound,

There breaks a seraph sound
Of never-ending morn;

The Lord of glory born

Within a holy grot on this our sullen ground.

Now with that shepherd crowd,

If it might be allowed,

We fain would enter there

With awful hastening fear,

And kiss that cradle chaste in reverend worship bowed.

O sight of strange surprise
That fills our gazing eyes;
A manger coldly strewed,

And swaddling bands so rude,

A leaning mother poor, and child that helpless lies.

Art thou, O wondrous sight,

Of lights the very Light,
Who holdest in thy hand
The sky and sea and land,

Who than the glorious heavens art more exceeding bright?

'Tis so; faith darts before,

And, through the cloud drawn o'er,
She sees the God of all,
Where angels prostrate fall,

Adoring tremble still, and trembling still adore.

No thunders round thee break ;
Yet doth thy silence speak
From that, thy Teacher's seat,
To us around thy feet,

To shun what flesh desires, what flesh abhors to seek.

Within us, Babe divine,

Be born, and make us thine;

Within our souls reveal

Thy love and power to heal;

673

OUR MASTER.

IMMORTAL Love, forever full,
Forever flowing free,
Forever shared, forever whole,
A never-ebbing sea!

Our outward lips confess the name

All other names above;

Love only knoweth whence it came,

And comprehendeth love.

Blow, winds of God, awake and blow The mists of earth away!

Shine out, O Light Divine, and show

How wide and far we stray!

Hush every lip, close every book,

The strife of tongues forbear;
Why forward reach, or backward look,
For love that clasps like air?

We may not climb the heavenly steeps
To bring the Lord Christ down :
In vain we search the lowest deeps,
For him no depths can drown.

Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape,
The lineaments restore

Of him we know in outward shape
And in the flesh no more.

He cometh not a king to reign;

The world's long hope is dim; The weary centuries watch in vain The clouds of heaven for him.

Death comes, life goes; the asking eye
And ear are answerless;

The grave is dumb, the hollow sky
Is sad with silentness.

The letter fails, and systems fall,
And every symbol wanes ;
The Spirit over-brooding all
Eternal Love remains.

And not for signs in heaven above
Or earth below they look,

Who know with John his smile of love,
With Peter his rebuke.

In joy of inward peace, or sense Of sorrow over sin,

He is his own best evidence,

His witness is within.

No fable old, nor mythic lore,

Nor dream of bards and seers,

No dead fact stranded on the shore Of the oblivious years; —

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet

A present help is he;

And faith has still its Olivet,

And love its Galilee.

The healing of his seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;

We touch him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again.

Through him the first fond prayers are said
Our lips of childhood frame,

The last low whispers of our dead
Are burdened with his name.

O Lord and Master of us all!
Whate'er our name or sign,
We own thy sway, we hear thy call,
We test our lives by thine.

Thou judgest us; thy purity

Doth all our lusts condemn ; The love that draws us nearer thee Is hot with wrath to them.

Our thoughts lie open to thy sight;
And, naked to thy glance,
Our secret sins are in the light

Of thy pure countenance.

Thy healing pains, a keen distress
Thy tender light shines in ;
Thy sweetness is the bitterness,
Thy grace the pang of sin.

Yet, weak and blinded though we be,
Thou dost our service own;
We bring our varying gifts to thee,
And thou rejectest none.

To thee our full humanity,

Its joys and pains, belong; The wrong of man to man on thee Inflicts a deeper wrong.

Who hates, hates thee, who loves, becomes
Therein to thee allied;

All sweet accords of hearts and homes
In thee are multiplied.

Deep strike thy roots, O heavenly Vine,
Within our earthly sod,

Most human and yet most divine,
The flower of man and God!

O Love! O Life! Our faith and sight Thy presence maketh one :

As through transfigured clouds of white We trace the noonday sun.

So, to our mortal eyes subdued, Flesh-veiled, but not concealed, We know in thee the fatherhood

And heart of God revealed.

We faintly hear, we dimly see,

In differing phrase we pray;
But, dim or clear, we own in thee
The Light, the Truth, the Way!

The homage that we render thee
Is still our Father's own;
Nor jealous claim or rivalry

Divides the Cross and Throne.

To do thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds, And simple trust can find thy ways We miss with chart of creeds.

No pride of self thy service hath,

No place for me and mine;

Our human strength is weakness, death Our life, apart from thine.

Apart from thee all gain is loss,

All labor vainly done;

The solemn shadow of thy Cross Is better than the sun.

In vain shall waves of incense drift The vaulted nave around,

In vain the minster turret lift

Its brazen weights of sound.

675

The heart must ring thy Christmas bells,
Thy inward altars raise;

Its faith and hope thy canticles,
And its obedience praise!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTier.

THE SAVIOUR'S PRAISE.

JOIN all the glorious names
Of wisdom, love, and power,
That ever mortals knew,

That angels ever bore;

All are too mean to speak his worth, Too mean to set my Saviour forth.

But oh! what gentle terms, What condescending ways, Doth our Redeemer use To teach his heavenly grace! Mine eyes with joy and wonder see What forms of love he bears for me.

Arrayed in mortal flesh

He like an angel stands,
And holds the promises

And pardons in his hands; Commissioned from his Father's throne To make his grace to mortals known.

Great prophet of my God,

My tongue would bless thy name;
By thee the joyful news

Of our salvation came:

The joyful news of sins forgiven,
Of hell subdued, and peace with Heaven.

Be thou my counsellor,
My pattern, and my guide;
And through this desert land
Still keep me near thy side:
Oh, let my feet ne'er run astray,
Nor rove, nor seek the crooked way!

I love my Shepherd's voice;
His watchful eyes shall keep
My wandering soul among
The thousands of his sheep:

He feeds his flock, he calls their names,

His bosom bears the tender lambs.

To this dear Surety's hand Will I commit my cause;