« PreviousContinue »
My fearful spirit clings to Thee,
And helpless hangs upon Thy breast ; Thy precious love is life to me,
Thy sympathy eternal rest. Jesus, Thy blood has bought me, I am Thine, In this poor heart, flows Thy own life divine.
In the fierce hour of Satan's sway,
When my weak soul with terror reels, Without the power to drive away
The fearful gloom, that o'er her steals ; E’en then a glorious ray of light divine, O'er my dark soul with heavenly power shall
Still, still Thy love is left to me,
Thy spirit dwells within my heart; The bonds that link my soul to thee,
Nor life, nor death, nor hell can part. Yet a brief hour, and I shall reach the gaol-The heavenly shore, and rest my weary soul.
“Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.”-Rom. xv. 13.
So was my weary soul
Distressed with many a fear,
No refuge near.
But a mild form arose
Upon the stormy sea,
That threatened me.
Said to the winds "be still,”
Bade all their ragings cease, And sought my heart to fill
With words of peace.
Whose was that bleeding brow,
And that deep wounded side? Jesus I know Thee now,
Thou Crucified !
Rescued and saved by Thee,
No more at sea to roam; Saviour I soon shall be
With Thee at home.
RAISING THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.
“And when Jesus came into the ruler's house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a noise,
“He said unto them “Give place, for the maid is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed Him to scorn.
"But when the people were put forth, he went in, and took her by the hand, and the maid arose.”—Matt. ix, 23, 24, 25.
TREAD softly-whisper low,-for death
His icy presence chills the darkened room; That pale and lifeless form, that waiting
bier, Speak of the one great bourne, the silent
tomb. Gaze on these thrilling tokens of decay, And ponder—for a soul has passed away.
Closed the veined eyelids, o'er the marble
cheek Droop the long lashes dark, a silken fringe Of gleaming beauty; on the forehead meek,
Steals the death palor, but a rose-leaf tinge Still lingers on the lips, though death has set His impress there, to reign triumphant yet.
A few short months, and she was gaily spring
ing, O'er the green hills, that, like an emerald
zone, Begirt Jerusalem, her young voice ringing
As silvery music in its joyous tone;But she is dead, her sunny smile departed, Leaving her childless parents broken hearted.
Bright was their pleasant home, while yet she
strayed Like a young fawn among the trees and