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We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee,

Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line,
We trace Thy picture's wise design,
And thank Thee that our age supplies
The dark relief of sacrifice.

Thy will be done!

And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press,
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,

Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,
And, blest by thee, our present pain
Be Liberty's eternal gain,

Thy will be done!

Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies !
The minor of Thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,
Thy will be done !

7. G. Whittier.

ST. CHRISTOPHER.

“CARRY me across ! ”

U The Syrian heard, rose up and braced His huge limbs to the accustomed toil: “My child, see how the waters boil ? The night-black heavens look angry-faced ;

But life is little loss.

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Cheerful, Arprobus took
The burden on his shoulders great,
And stepped into the waves once more ;
When lo! they leaping rise and roar,
And 'neath the little child's light weight

The tottering giant shook.

“Who art thou ? ” cried he wild, Struggling in middle of the ford : “ Boy as thou look'st, it seems to me

The whole world's load I bear in thee,
Yet —“For the sake of Christ, thy Lord,

Carry me,” said the child.

No more Arprobus swerved,
But gained the farther bank, and then
A voice cried, “ Hence Christopheros be !
For carrying, thou hast carried ME,
The King of angels and of men,

The Master thou haft served.”

And in the moonlight blue
The saint saw — not the wandering boy,
But Him who walked upon the sea
And o’er the plains of Galilee,
Till, filled with mystic, awful joy,

His dear Lord Christ he knew.

O, little is all loss,
And brief the space 'twixt shore and shore,
If thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay,
Through the deep waters of our way,
The burden that Christopheros bore, —
To carry Thee across.

Miss D. Muloch. THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH.

CHOU, long disowned, reviled, opprest,

1 Strange friend of human kind, Seeking through weary years a rest

Within our hearts to find ; —

How late thy bright and awful brow

Breaks through these clouds of fin ! Hail, Truth Divine ! we know thee now,

Angel of God, come in !

Come, though with purifying fire,

And desolating sword,
Thou of all nations the desire !

Earth waits thy cleansing word.

Struck by the lightning of thy glance,

Let old oppressions die ;
Before thy cloudless countenance

Let fear and falsehood Ay.

Anoint our eyes with healing grace,

To see, as ne'er before,
Our Father in our brother's face,

Our Maker in His poor.

Flood our dark life with golden day;

Convince, subdue, enthrall ;
Then to a mightier yield thy sway,
And Love be all in all.

Eliza Scudder.

REIGN OF CHRIST.

V INGDOMS and thrones to God belong; 1 Crown him, ye nations, in your song ; His wondrous names and powers rehearse ; His honors shall enrich your verse.

He shakes the heavens with loud alarms;
How terrible is God in arms!
In Israel are his mercies known;
Israel is his peculiar throne.

Proclaim him King, — pronounce him blest;
He is your life, your joy, your reft ;
When terrors rise, and nations faint,
God is the strength of every saint.

Isaac Watts.

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