Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed:
I had myself a wound concealed;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's death at morn :
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honoured him midst shame and scorn;
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He ask'd, if I for him would die?

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill;
But the free spirit cried, "I will."

Then in a moment to my view

The Stranger darted from disguise ;
The tokens in His hands I knew,

My Saviour stood before mine eyes!
He spake; and my poor name He named ;
"Of me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not; thou didst them unto Me."

James Montgomery. 1826.

V.

HOPE.

"Set your affections on things above; not on things on the earth."—(COL. iii. 2.)

CCCLXI.

I praised the earth, in beauty seen
With garlands gay of various green ;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield;
And earth and ocean seem'd to say,
"Our beauties are but for a day."

I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd
On wheels of amber and of gold;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Gleam'd sweetly through the summer sky
And moon and sun in answer said,
"Our days of light are numbered."

O God! O Good beyond compare !
If thus Thy meaner works are fair,
If thus Thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must the mansion be,

Where Thy redeem'd shall dwell with Thee!
Bishop Reginald Heber. 1827.

CCCLXII.

Our life is but an idle play,

And various as the wind;

We laugh and sport our hours away,
Nor think of woes behind.

See the fair cheek of beauty fade,
Frail glory of an hour;

And blooming youth, with sickening head,
Droops like the dying flower,

Our pleasures, like the morning sun,
Diffuse a flattering light ;

But gloomy clouds obscure their noon,

And soon they sink in night.

Wealth, pomp, and honour, we behold
With an admiring eye;

Like summer insects, drest in gold,
That flutter, shine, and die.

One little moment can destroy

Our vast laborious schemes; And all our heaps of solid joy Are sweet deceitful dreams.

Then rise, my soul! and soar away
Above the thoughtless crowd;
Above the pleasures of the gay,
And splendours of the proud;

Up where eternal beauties bloom,
And pleasures all divine;

Where wealth, that never can consume,

And endless glories shine!

Henry Moore. [1806.]

CCCLXIII.

Though, by sorrows overtaken,
Lord, thy servants seem forsaken,
Thy Almighty hand, we know,
Blendeth love with human woe.

Over earth, and over ocean,
Claiming sinful man's devotion,
Round the living and the dead,
Lord, Thy boundless love is shed.

All to death in this world hasteth;
Riches vanish, beauty wasteth;
Yet within the mourner's breast
Love is an undying guest.

Love, unlike all worldly pleasures,
Wraps in grief its golden treasures,
And to meek and wounded hearts
Deep and holy joy imparts.

Love, that strength and pardon bringest
Through His cross, from Whom thou springest!
May in us Thy gracious force
Heavenward turn our spirits' course!

Come, and while Salvation's morning
On our darken'd soul is dawning,
Sin's deep midnight roll away!

Pour on us the light of day!

Algernon Herbert. [1839.]

CCCLXIV,

We've no abiding city here:

This may distress the worldling's mind;
But should not cost the saint a tear
Who hopes a better rest to find.

We've no abiding city here:

Sad truth! were this to be our home! But let this thought our spirits cheer ; We seek a city yet to come.

We've no abiding city here :

Then let us live as pilgrims do! Let not the world our rest appear, But let us haste from all below.

We've no abiding city here:

We seek a city out of sight; Zion its name, the Lord is there, It shines with everlasting light!

Zion! Jehovah is her strength;

Secure she smiles at all her foes; And weary travellers at length

Within her sacred walls repose.

O! sweet abode of peace and love,

Where pilgrims freed from toil are blest!

Had I the pinions of the dove,

I'd fly to thee, and be at rest!

Thomas Kelly. 1812-1836.

CCCLXV.

PSALM CXXXVII.

Far from my heavenly home,
Far from my Father's breast,
Fainting I cry, "Blest Spirit! come
And speed me to my rest!"

Upon the willows long

My harp has silent hung:

How should I sing a cheerful song
Till Thou inspire my tongue?

My spirit homeward turns,
And fain would thither flee;

My heart, O Zion, droops and yearns,
When I remember thee.

To thee, to thee I press,
A dark and toilsome road:
When shall I pass the wilderness
And reach the saints' abode ?

God of my life, be near!

On Thee my hopes I cast:

O guide me through the desert here,
And bring me home at last!

Henry Francis Lyte. 1834.