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Thou knoweft that the time thy God
Appoints for thee is beft.

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.


IN Thee my powers, my treasures live,
To Thee my life muft tend;
Giving Thyself, Thou all doft give,
O soul-sufficing Friend!

And wherefore fhould I seek above,

The City in the fky?
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 humbleft toil, by ceaseless care,
Its holy towers are raised?

Where pain the soul hath purified,

And penitence hath fhriven,
And truth is crowned and glorified,

There — only there — is heaven!

Eliza Scudder. 1858. SUNDAY.


HOW sweet, how calm this Sabbath morn!
How pure the air that breathes,
And soft the sounds upon it borne,
And light its vapor wreaths!

It seems as if the Chriftian's prayer,

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

That wafts its ftrain above.

Let each unholy paflion cease,

Each evil thought be crufhed,
Each anxious care that mars thy peace

In faith and love be hufhed.


SLEEP, fleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born;
Ye fhall not dim the light that ftreams
From this celeftial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harm control; Ye fhall not violate, this day,

The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, fleep forever, guilty thoughts;

Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purged from fin, may I behold

A God of purity!

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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 firft had its birth; On thee for our salvation

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

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

A triple Light was given.

Thou art a port protected

From ftorms that round us rise; A garden intersected

With ftreams 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 dav of resurrection

From earth to things above.

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