Behold his loving head! his bleeding hands! His oft-repeated stripes! his wounded side! Hark! how he groans! Remember how he cried. The very heavens put weeds of mourning on; The solid rocks in sunder rent; And yet this stone will not relent! Hard-hearted man! Only man denied to mourn for him For whom alone He died! HYMN BY A BENGOLI CONVERT. KRISTNA PAL. O thou, my soul, forget no more Let every idol be forgot, But O, my soul, forget Him not. Renounce thy works and ways with grief, And fly to this divine relief; Nor Him forget, who left his throne, Infinite truth and mercy shine And canst thou then, with sin beset, Such charms, such matchless charms forget? O! no! till life itself depart, His name shall cheer and warm my heart; And join the chorus of the skies. CONSECRATION. Jesus, Saviour, Lord of Life, Help us with thy power divine! Till to thy abode thou take us; Then we'll cast our crowns before thee, And in loftier strains adore thee! Now we live for thee alone, "Tis for thee these arms we bear ; Other leader we have none; Sovereign Saviour, thine we are! THE TRUE REST. What dost thou, O wandering dove, From thy home in the rock's riven breast? Tis fair, but the falcon is wheeling above; Fly fly to the sheltering nest. To thy nest, wandering dove, to thy nest! Frail bark, on that bright summer sea, To the port, little bark, to the port! Tired roe, that the hunter dost flee, While his arrow e'en now's on the wing, In that dark green recess there's a fountain for thee; Go, rest by that cool secret spring! To the spring, panting roe, to the spring! My spirit, still hovering, half blest, 'Mid shadows so fleeting and dim, Ah! know'st thou thy Rock, and thy haven of rest, And thy pure spring of Joy? Then to Him! Then to Him, fluttering spirit, to Him! THE CHILD'S GRAVE. It is a place where tender thought Where, followed by a thousand dreams, It is a place where thankfulness Where so much sorrow liveth; Where trial to the heavy heart It is a place for hope to rise, From Him who wept, as on the earth From Him who spake those blessed words "She is not dead, but sleepeth." A CHILD'S REQUEST. A FACT. "Mamma," a little maiden said, EPITAPH ON SUSANNA, WIFE OF DR. Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, |