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XCI.

THE SABBATH.

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HE Sundays of man's life,

Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife

Of the eternal glorious King.

On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.

GEORGE HERBERT.

XCII.

THE FIRST GREAT CAUSE.

VERY science, power, or art,
Which tends to foster in the heart

Knowledge of Nature's laws,
Muft, fanctified by grace divine,
Precept on precept, line on line,

Exalt the First Great Cause.

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The Cross.--The Light of Heaben, 259

XCIII.

THE CROSS.

F loving hearts were never lonely,

If all they wish might always be,
Accepting what they look for only,

They might be glad, but not in Thee.

We need as much the Cross we bear,

As air we breathe—as light we see ;
It draws us to Thy fide in prayer,
It binds us to our strength in Thee.

A. L. WARING.

XCIV.

THE LIGHT OF HEAVEN.

HUS when the lamp that lighted

The traveller at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,

And lingers on in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

In cloudless starlight on he treads ;
And finds no lamp fo cheering,
As that light which heaven sheds.

Moore.

хсу.

HEAVEN.

F God could make this world so fair,

Where death and sin abound-
How beautiful beyond compare
Will Paradise be found !

J. MONTGOMERY.

XCVI.

HEAVEN.
HERE'S rest for the soul that on Jesus

relies;
There's a home for the homeless pre-

pared in the skies; There's a joy in believing, a peace and a

stay Which the world cannot give, nor the world take

away.

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XCVII.

HEAVEN.

HERE is a place, beyond that flaming

hill, From whence the stars their thin ap

pearance shed;
A place beyond all place; where never

ill
Nor impure thought was ever harboured;
But saintly heroes are for ever said
To keep an everlasting sabbath's rest.

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XCVIII.

HEAVEN.

H! what a chorus shall the ransomed

sing, When standing round the throne of God

their king! Methinks I hear the golden harps' vi

bration, And every note is full and free salvation.

S 3

XCIX.

HEAVEN.

A

CLOUD lay cradled near the setting

sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided

snow; Long had I watched the glory moving

on, O’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated flow;

E’en in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of wind that chanced to blow,

Wafted the beauteous traveller to the West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed foul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heav'n ;
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

Wilson.

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