Thus onward still we press

Through evil and through good;
Through pain and poverty and want,
Through peril and through blood.

Still faithful to our God,

And to our Captain true,

We follow where he leads the way,
The Kingdom in our view.

"IT IS TOLD ME I MUST DIE."

[RICHARD LANGHORNE, a lawyer, was unjustly condemned and put to death as a traitor, in the reign of Charles II. Just before his execution he wrote the following unique and most exquisite poem.]

Ir is told me I must die!

O happy news!

Be glad, O my soul,

And rejoice in Jesus thy Saviour!
If he intended thy perdition,

Would he have laid down his life for thee?

Would he have called thee with so much love,
And illuminated thee with the light of his Spirit?
Would he have given thee his cross,

And given thee shoulders to bear it with patience?

It is told me I must die!

O happy news!

Come on, my dearest soul;
Behold, thy Jesus calls thee!

He prayed for thee upon his cross;

There he extended his arms to receive thee ;
There he bowed down his head to kiss thee;
There he opened his heart to give thee entrance;
'There he gave up his life to purchase life for thee.

It is told me I must die!
O what happiness!
I am going

To the place of my rest;
To the land of the living;
To the haven of security;
To the kingdom of peace;
To the palace of my God;
To the nuptials of the Lamb;
To sit at the table of my King;
To feed on the bread of angels;
To see what no eye hath seen;

To hear what no ear hath heard;

To enjoy what the heart of man cannot comprehend.

O my Father!

O thou best of all Fathers,

Have pity on the most wretched of all thy children;
I was lost, but by thy mercy found;

I was dead, but by thy grace am now raised again:
I was gone astray after vanity,
But am now ready to appear before thee.

O my Father!

Come now in mercy and receive thy child!
Give him thy kiss of peace;

Remit unto him all his sins;

Clothe him with thy nuptial robe;

Permit him to have a place at thy feast; And forgive all those who are guilty of his death.

THE HOLY JERUSALEM.
Bernard de Morlaix.-(12th Century.)

JERUSALEM the golden,

With milk and honey blest:
Beneath thy contemplation

Sink heart and voice oppressed.

I know not, O I know not,
What social joys are there;
What radiancy of glory,

What light beyond compare:

They stand, those halls of Zion,
Conjubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel,
And all the martyr throng.

The Prince is ever in them;
The daylight is serene;
The pastures of the Blessed

Are decked in glorious sheen.

There is the Throne of David,

And there, from care released,
The song of them that triumph,
The shout of them that feast;

And who beneath their Leader
Have conquered in the fight,
For ever and for ever

Are clad in robes of white!

Jerusalem the glorious!
The glory of the elect!
O dear and future vision
That eager hearts expect:

Even now by faith I see thee-
Even here thy walls discern ;
To thee my thoughts are kindled,
And strive and pant and yearn.

Jerusalem the only,

That look'st from heaven below, In thee is all my glory

In me is all my woe.

And though my body may not,
My spirit seeks thee fain,
Till flesh and earth return me
To earth and flesh again.

O none can tell thy bulwarks,
How gloriously they rise :
O none can tell thy capitals
Of beautiful device.

Thy loveliness oppresses

All human thought and heart: And none, O peace, O Zion,

Can sing thee as thou art.

And there the band of Prophets
United praise ascribes,

And there the twelvefold chorus
Of Israel's ransomed tribes:

The lily-beds of virgins,
The roses' martyr-glow,
The cohort of the Fathers
Who kept the faith below.
And there the Sole-Begotten
Is LORD in regal state;
He, Judah's mystic Lion,
He, Lamb Immaculate.

O fields that know no sorrow!
O state that fears no strife!
O princely bow'rs! O land of flow'rs!
O realm and home of life!

Jerusalem, exulting

On that securest shore,

I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee,
And love thee evermore!

The best and dearest FATHER,

Who made me and who saved,
Bore with me in defilement,
And from defilement laved.

When in his strength I struggle,
For very joy I leap,
When in my sin I totter,
I weep, or try to weep.