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MATT, XI. 0, Saviour, is thy promise fled ?

No longer might thy grace endure, To heal the sick and raise the dead,

And preach thy gospel to the poor? Come, Jesus, come, return again;

With brighter beam thy servants bless, Who long to feel thy perfect reign,

And share thy kingdom's happiness. A feeble race, by passion driven,

In darkness and in doubt we roam, And lift our anxious eyes to heaven,

Our hope, our harbor, and our home. Yet, ʼmid the wild and wintry gale,

When death rides darkly o'er the sea, And strength and earthly daring fail, Our

prayers, Redeemer, rest on thee. Come, Jesus, come, and, as of yore

The prophet went to clear thy way, A harbinger thy feet before,

A dawning to thy brighter day : So now may grace with hcavenly shower

Our stony heasts for truth prepare; Sow in our souls the seed of power,

Then come and reap thy harvest there.


The world is grown old, and her pleasures are

past; The world is grown old, and her form may not


The world is grown old, and trembles for fear; For sorrows abound and judgment is near.

The sun in the heaven is languid and pale ;
And feeble and few are the fruits of the vale ;
And the hearts of the nations fail them for fear,
For the world is grown old, and judgment is


The king on his throne, the bride in her bower,
The children of pleasure all feel the sad hour;
The roses are faded, and tasteless the cheer,
For the world is grown old, and judgment is near.

The world is grown old,—but should we com

plain, Who have tried her and know that her promise

is vain ? Our heart is in heaven, our home is not here, And we look for our crown when judgment is



0, Saviour, whom this holy morn

Gave to our world below,
To mortal want and labor born,

And more than mortal wo;

Incarnate Word, by every grief,

By each temptation tried, Who lives to yield our ills relief,

And to redeem us died ;

If gaily clothed and proudly fed,

In dangerous wealth we dwell, Remind us of thy manger bed,

And lowly cottage cell.

If pressed by poverty severe,

In envious want we pine,
O may thy spirit whisper near,

How poor a lot was thine.

Through fickle fortune's various scene

From sin preserve us free;
Like us thou hast a mourner been,

May we rejoice with thee.


The Son of God goes forth to war,

A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar;

Who follows in his train ?
Who best can drink his cup of wo,

Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,

He follows in his train.

The martyr first, whose eagle eye

Could pierce beyond the grave;
Who saw his Master in the sky,

And called on him to save.
Like Him, with pardon on his tongue

In midst of mortal pain,
He prayed for them that did the wrong.

Who follows in his train !

A glorious band, the chosen few,

On whom the spirit came; Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,

And mocked the cross and flame.

They met the tyrant's brandished steel,

The lion's gory mane : They bowed their necks the death to feel.

Who follows in their train ?

A noble army--men and boys,

The matron and the maid, Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,

In robes of light arrayed. They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,

Through peril, toil, and pain. O God, to us may grace be given

To follow in their train.

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