Illume my soul, and let these contrite tears Blot out all record of my misspent years, Dark with the sad remembrances of sin; Then, in this purified, repentant breast, Enter, and be forevermore my Guest!

W. R. WEALE.

IN HEAVEN WE SHALL BE PURIFIED.

The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously by the author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing, as he was accustomed to do on such occasions.

AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake!
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place.

When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh, where shall man retire,
To escape the horrors of his ire?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.

Yet, courage! days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside,
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And washed in Jesus' cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

PRAISE TO THE REDEEMER. The fourth, fifth, and seventh stanzas of the following hymn are usually omitted.

PLUNGED in a gulf of dark despair
We wretched sinners lay,
Without one cheerful beam of hope,
Or spark of glimmering day.

677

Leave them to say, "This people's medita

tion

Is vain and idle!" sit with ear and eye Fixed upon Christ, in childlike dedication, O thou inhabitant of Bethany!

LORENZO DE' MEDICI.

PRAYER FOR PARDON.

SELINA SHIRLEY, Countess of Huntingdon, second daughter of Washington, Earl Ferrers, was born Aug 24, 1707, and died June 17, 1791. She has been, not without good reason, called the most remarkable woman of her age. She became the wife of Theophilus Hastings, Earl Huntingdon, in June, 1728. Her husband sympathized with her in her religious views. He died in 1746. George Whitefield became Lady Huntingdon's chaplain, and she devoted her time and fortune to the furtherance of the work of the Calvinistic Methodists, who came to be known as of Lady Huntingdon's Connection." Her hymns were included in a collection that she issued in 1764. The following text is from Rippon's collection, and differs in many lines from that given by Dr. Rogers, in his "Lyra Britannica."

WHEN thou, my righteous Judge, shalt come
To take thy ransomed people home,
Shall I among them stand?
Shall such a worthless worm as I,
Who sometimes am afraid to die,
Be found at thy right hand?

I love to meet thy people now,
Before thy feet with them to bow,

Though vilest of them all;
But, can I bear the piercing thought,
What if my name should be left out,
When thou for them shalt call!

1866.

Take us, O Lord, to Nazareth;
Show us the tender plant,
The root from the dry ground:
There show us Christ the Lord,
Reveal the love of God.

Lord, guide us to Gethsemane;
Show us the sweat of blood,
Make known the agony :
There show us Christ the Lord,
Reveal the love of God.

Lord, bring us on to Calvary;
Display the cross of shame,
Show us the sacrifice :
There show us Christ the Lord,
Reveal the love of God.

Lord, take us to the empty tomb,
And say, He is not here;
Lo, he is risen indeed :
There show us Christ the Lord,
Reveal the love of God.

Place us at last on Olivet,

Whereon his feet shall stand When he shall come again : There show us Christ the Lord, Reveal the love of God.

HORATIUS BONAR, D. D.

WE SING TO THEE, EMMANUEL.

"Wir singen Dir, Immanuel."

This hymn has, in the original, twenty stanzas, but is much abridged in German hymn-books.

WE sing to thee, Emmanuel,

The Prince of life, salvation's well,
The plant of heaven, the star of morn,
The Lord of lords, the virgin-born!

All glory, worship, thanks, and praise,
That thou art come in these our days!
Thou heavenly guest, expected long,
We hail thee with a joyful song.

For thee, since first the world was made,
Men's hearts have waited, watched,and prayed;
Prophets and patriarchs, year by year,
Have longed to see thy light appear.
"O God!" they prayed, “from Sion rise,
And hear thy captive people's cries;
At length, O Lord! salvation bring:
Then Jacob shall rejoice and sing!"
Now thou, by whom the world was made,
Art in thy manger-cradle laid;
Maker of all things great, art small,

Naked thyself, though clothing all.

Thou, who both heaven and earth dost sway, In strangers' inn art fain to stay;

And though thy power makes angels blest,
Dost seek thy food from human breast.

Encouraged thus, our love grows bold
On thee to lay our steadfast hold;
The cross which thou didst undergo
Has vanquished death and healed our woe.

Thou art our Head: then, Lord, of thee,
True, living members we will be;
And, in the strength thy grace shall give,
Will live as thou wouldst have us live.

As each short year goes quickly round,
Our hallelujahs shall resound;
And, when we reckon years no more,
May we in heaven thy name adore!
PAUL GERHARDT, 1656. Translated by
FRANCES ELIZABETH COX, 1865.

THE DESCENT INTO HELL. WHEREFORE groan the gates eternal ?

Wherefore quake the gates of Hell? Who hath power to stir those portals brazenbound, invincible?

See, they tremble, as the earthquake shudders inward from afar,

And the waves of light and motion shimmer through the prison bar :

And we hear advancing footsteps nearer still and still more near:

Crash the bars! the gates fly open! the

august Unknown is here!

Lift your heads, ye everlasting gates of Hades! Open wide,

For the King of Glory cometh in the triumph of his pride:

Who is then the King of Glory? 'Tis the Lord of strength and power,

The First-born of all creation, Ruler of the battle-hour.

679

Hades! Open wide,

For the King of Glory cometh in the triumph of his pride.

Who is then the King of Glory? Lord of Hosts, we greet thee well!

King of Glory, enter welcome to the fortalice of Hell.

muster-roll,

Thick as thoughts which throng the deathscene of the conscience-stricken soul:

They are here, the lords of Hades; in their disobedience dark

Who unbending saw the waters lap the keelbeam of the ark:

EDGAR ALFRED BOWRING, a younger son of the statesman, Sir John Bowring, was born in England in 1826, and was educated at University College, London. He has been much in public life, and was a favorite of the late Prince Consort. He has translated the poems of Schiller, Heine, and Goethe, and has been a frequent contributor to periodical literature. He was Secretary to the Royal Commission for the Great Exhibition of 1851. and held the appointment until he became member of Parliament in 1868. In publishing the following translation, Mr. Bowring says: "The remarkable poem of which this is a literal but very faint representation was written when Goethe was only sixteen years old. It derives additional interest from being the very earliest piece of his that is preserved." WHAT Wondrous noise is heard around! Through heaven exulting voices sound, A mighty army marches on. By thousand millions followed, lo. To yon dark place makes haste to go

God's Son, descending from his throne!
He goes, the tempests round him break,
As judge and hero cometh he;
He goes, the constellations quake,

The sun, the world, quake fearfully.

I see him in his victor-car,
On fiery axles borne afar,

Who on the cross for us expired.
The triumph to yon realms he shows,
Remote from earth, where star ne'er glows,
The triumph he for us acquired.
He cometh, hell to extirpate,

Whom he by dying wellnigh killed; He shall pronounce her fearful fate: Hark! now the curse is straight fulfilled.

Hell sees the victor come at last,
She feels that now her reign is past,

She quakes and fears to meet his sight;
She knows his thunders' terrors dread,
In vain she seeks to hide her head,

Attempts to fly, but vain is flight;
Vainly she hastes to 'scape pursuit
And to avoid her Judge's eye;
The Lord's fierce wrath restrains her foot
Like brazen chains, she cannot fly.

Here lies the Dragon, trampled down,
He lies, and feels God's angry frown,

He feels, and grinneth hideously;
He feels hell's speechless agonies,
A thousand times he howis and sighs: