DRAW near, ye weary, bow'd, and broken-hearted,
Ye onward travellers to a peaceful bourne!
Ye from whose path the light hath all departed;
Ye who are left in solitude to mourn!
Though o'er your spirits hath the storm-cloud swept,
Sacred are sorrow's tears since "Jesus wept."
The bright and spotless heir of endless glory
Wept for the woes of those He came to save;
And angels wonder'd when they heard the story,
That He who conquer'd death wept o'er the grave;
For 'twas not when His lonely watch He kept
In dark Gethsemane that "Jesus wept."
But with the friends He loved, whose hope had perish'd, The Saviour stood, and through His bosom rush'd
A tide of sympathy for those He cherish'd,
While from His eyes the burning tear-drop gush'd; And bending o'er the tomb where Lazarus slept, In agony of spirit "Jesus wept."
Lo! Jesus' power the sleep of death has broken,
And wiped the tear from sorrow's drooping eye;
Look up, ye mourners! hear what He hath spoken,
"He that believes in me shall never die!"
Through faith and love your spirits shall be kept:
Hope brighter grew on earth when "Jesus wept."
ON SEEING LAID THE FIRST STONES OF TWO SMALL CHURCHES, SINCE BUILT
AT RENNINGTON AND SWAY, NEAR LYMINGTON, HAMPSHIRE.
On this day's purpose, Lord!
Send down Thy blessing-
Hear thou the suppliant hearts
Thy throne addressing—
Let Thy light shine on this appointed place,
And perfect our imperfect work through grace.
Full well, O Lord! we know
That temples made with hands
Thou needest not, whose power
Yet dwellest oft in shrines-not wroughten gold
But some poor humble heart of human mould.
But Thou hast pledged Thy word,
Where two or three
Are gather'd in Thy name,
Thyself wilt be:
Thence we discern, by Faith's far-stretching eye,
Thy presence in the future sanctuary.
Therefore we lay this stone,
And humbly pray,
Be with us, Lord! and with
Our act this day
Be with their hearts and counsels who direct,
And with the builder's hand, Almighty Architect!
But chiefly be with those
Shall hither come,
When consecrated stands
The finish'd dome :
On all, O Father! let Thy spirit rest―
People and priest-on all-in every breast.
On this day's purpose, Lord!
Send down Thy blessing-
Hear thou the suppliant hearts
Thy throne addressing
Let Thy light shine on this appointed place,
And perfect our imperfect work through grace.
Up to thy Master's work! for thou art sworn
To do his bidding, till the hand of death
Strike off thine armour.-Thy deep vow denies
To hoard earth's gold, or truckle for its smile,
Or bind its blood-stain'd laurel on thy brow.
A nobler field is thine.-The soul! the soul!
That is thy province, that mysterious thing,
Which hath no limit from the walls of sense-
No chill from hoary time-with pale decay
No fellowship; but shall stand forth unchanged,
Unscath'd amid the Resurrection fires,
To bear its boundless lot of good or ill.
And dost thou take authority to aid
This pilgrim-essence to a throne in heaven
Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks
Of radiant seraphim and cherubim ?
Thy business is with that which cannot die,
Whose subtle thought the untravell❜d universe
Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages sweeps
Their buried treasures, scans the vault of heaven,
Poises the orbs of light, points boldly out
Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse,
Foils the red comet in its flaming speed,
And aims to read the secrets of its God.
Yet thou, a son of clay, art privileged
To make thy Saviour's image brighter still
In this majestic soul!
Give God the praise
That thou art counted worthy; and lay down
Thy lip in dust.-Bethink thee of its loss;
For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs
On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth,
Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on
Till the last hour of grace and penitence
Is meted out, ah! what would it avail
Though the whole world, with all its pomp, and power,
And plumage, were its own? What were its gain
If the brief hour-glass of this life should fail,
And leave remorse no grave-despair, no hope?
-Up, blow thy trumpet, sound the loud alarm
To those who sleep in Zion. Boldly warn
To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head
Age after age of misery hath roll'd;
Who from their prison-house look up and see
Heaven's golden gate—and to its watchmen cry
"What of the night?" while the dread answer falls
With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths—
"Eternity!"
Should one of those lost souls
Amid its tossings utter forth thy name,
As one who might have pluck'd it from the pit,
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