The Home of Rest.

353

The Home of Rest.

REV. SIR HENRY BAKER, BART.

HERE is a blessed home

THER

Beyond this land of woe,
Where trials never come,
Nor tears of sorrow flow;
Where faith is lost in sight,
And patient hope is crown d,
And everlasting light

Its glory throws around.

There is a land of peace,
Good angels know it well;
Glad songs that never cease
Within its portals swell;
Around its glorious Throne

Ten thousand saints adore
Christ, with the Father One,
And Spirit, evermore.

O joy all joys beyond,

To see the Lamb who died,
And count each sacred wound
In hands, and feet, and side;
To give to Him the praise
Of every triumph won,

And sing through endless days
The great things He hath done.

Look up, ye saints of God,
Nor fear to tread below
The path your Saviour trod
Of daily toil and woe;
Wait but a little while
In uncomplaining love,
His own most gracious smile
Shall welcome you above.

N

Submission.

From "The Child's Christian Year."

LORD, how happy should we be

If we could cast our care on Thee, If we from self could rest;

And feel at heart that One above

In perfect wisdom, perfect love,
Is working for the best.

How far from this our daily life,
How oft disturbed by anxious strife,
By sudden wild alarms;

Oh, could we but relinquish all
Our earthly props, and simply fall
On Thine Almighty arms!

Could we but kneel and cast our load,
E'en while we pray, upon our God,
Then rise with lighten'd cheer;
Sure that the Father, who is nigh
To still the famish'd raven's cry,
Will hear in that we fear.

We cannot trust Him as we should ;
So chafes weak nature's restless mood

To cast its peace away;

But birds and flowerets round us preach,

All, all the present evil preach

Sufficient for the day.

Lord, make these faithless hearts of ours Such lessons learn from birds and flowers;

Make them from self to cease,

Leave all things to a Father's will
And taste, before Him lying still,

E'en in affliction peace.

The Glory of Heaven.

355

Blessed are those who fear the Lord.
JOHN DUFF.-Music by E. L. Hime.

HOPELESS are those who shun the Lord,

Who turn from truth aside,

Who peril all to gather wealth,

Who languish in their pride;

Troubled their dreams at night shall be,

Sorrow will dim their day,

No cheering voice to breathe of hope;
Friendless they'll pass away.

Bless'd are those who fear the Lord,
Who lead a spotless life,

Who never did a deed of wrong,

Or plunged in angry strife:
Placid and calm their days shall be,
With sweet contentment blest;

No anxious thoughts shall cloud the hour
They seek eternal rest.

The Glory of Heaven.

BISHOP RICHARD MANT.

ROUND

OUND the Lord in glory seated
Cherubim and seraphim

Fill'd His temple, and repeated

Each to each th' alternate hymn.

"Lord, Thy glory fills the heaven,
"Earth is with its fulness stored;

"Unto Thee be glory given,

Heaven is still with glory ringing, Earth takes up the angels' cry, “Holy, holy, holy,” singing,

"Lord of hosts, the Lord most High!"

With His seraph train before Him,
With His holy Church below,
Thus conspire we to adore Him,
Bid we thus our anthem flow:

"Lord, Thy Glory fills the heaven, "Earth is with its fulness stored;

"Unto Thee be glory given, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord!"

Longing to be with Christ.

CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT.

ET me be with Thee where Thou art,

LE

My Saviour, my eternal Rest!

Then only will this longing heart
Be fully and for ever blest!

Let me be with Thee where Thou art,
Thy unveil'd glory to behold;
Then only will this wandering heart
Cease to be treacherous, faithless, cold!

Let me be with Thee where Thou art, Where spotless saints Thy Name adore:

Then only will this sinful heart

Be evil and defiled no more!

A Morning Hymn.

Let me be with Thee where Thou art,
Where none can die, and none remove,
Where neither death nor life will part
Me from Thy presence and Thy love!

357

S

A Morning Hymn.

MRS H. MORE.

OFT slumbers now mine eyes forsake,

My powers are all renew'd;

May my freed spirit too awake

With heavenly strength endued.

Thou silent murderer, sloth, no more
My mind imprison'd keep;

Nor let me waste another hour

With thee, thou felon, sleep.

Think, O my soul, could dying men
One lavish'd hour retrieve,

Though spent in tears, and pass'd in pain,
What treasures they would give.

But seas of pearl, and mines of gold,
Were offer'd them in vain ;
Their pearl of countless price is lost,
And where's the promised gain?

Lord, when Thy day of dread account
For squander'd hours shall come,
Oh! let not this increase th' amount,
Nor swell the former sum.