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He came not thus; no earthquake shock
No trumpet blast, nor thunder peal,
O DAY most calm, most bright,
The other days and thou
Make up one man, whose face thou art,
The Sundays of man's life,
The rest of our creation
With the same shake which, at His passion,
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.
The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence: Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at His expense,
Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,
And fit for paradise.
Thou art a day of mirth;
And where the week-days trail on ground,
AND is there care in heaven? and is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is :-else much more wretched were the
Of men than beasts: but, oh, the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves His creatures so, And all His works with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels He sends to and fro, To serve the wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies like flying pursuivant, Against foul fiends to aid us militant! They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward:
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such
THE LARK AND THE DOVE.
THEY that are merry, let them sing,
So mounts the early warbling lark
And yet the lark, and yet the dove,
Or rather, we should each essay,
And our cross notes unite;
Both grief and joy should sing and pray,
Hopes that all present sorrow heal,
Hopes to possess, and taste, and feel
PART OF PSALM CXXXVII.
By the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, There we sate, and there we wept ;
Our harps, that now no music understood,
They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast,
Would have a song carv'd to their ears, In Hebrew numbers, then, (O cruel jest!)
When harps and hearts were drown'd in
"Come," they cried, "come, sing and play One of Sion's songs to-day!"
Sing!-Play!-to whom, ah! shall we sing and play,
If not, Jerusalem, to thee?
The music of thy memory.
YE who dwell above the skies
You whom highest heaven embowers,