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Let faith, not fear nor fretfulness,

Awake the cry, “How long ?” Let no faint-heartedness of soul

Damp thy aspiring song ; Right comes, truth dawns, and night departs Of error and of wrong.

The Cross-Bearer.

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And wherefore should I seek above,

The City in the sky?
Since firm in faith, and deep in love,

Its broad foundations lie?

Since in a life of peace and prayer,

Nor known on earth nor praised, By humblest toil, by ceaseless care,

Its holy towers are raised ?

Where pain the soul hath purified,

And penitence hath shriven,
And truth is crowned and glorified,
There — only there is heaven!

Eliza Scudder.

1858.

SUNDAY.

SUNDAY MORNING.

D OW sweet, how calm this Sabbath morn! 11 How pure the air that breathes, And soft the sounds upon it borne,

And light its vapor wreaths !

It seems as if the Christian's prayer,

For peace and joy and love, Were answered by the very air

That wafts its strain above.

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To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harsh control ; Ye shall not violate, this day,

The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;

Let fires of vengeance die ;
And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity !

Mrs. Barbauld.

1825.

A HYMN FOR THE SABBATH.

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On thee, the high and lowly,

Bending before the Throne, Sing Holy, Holy, Holy,

To the Great Three in One.

On thee, at the creation,

The light first had its birth; On thee for our salvation

Christ rose from depths of earth ; On thee our Lord victorious

The Spirit sent from Heaven, And thus on thee most glorious

A triple Light was given.

Thou art a port protected

From storms that round us rise ; A garden intersected

With streams of Paradise ; Thou art a cooling fountain

In life's dry, dreary sand; From thee, like Pisgah’s mountain,

We view our Promised Land.

Thou art a holy ladder,

Where angels go and come ; Each Sunday finds us gladder,

Nearer to heaven, our home ; A day of sweet reflection,

Thou art a day of love ; A day of resurrection

From earth to things above.

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