41

Death shall never harm thee,

Shrink not from his blow,
For thy God shall arm thee,
And victory bestow:

For death shall bring to thee no sting,
The grave no desolation;

'Tis gain to die, with Jesus nigh,
The Rock of thy salvation.

Subdued by the Cross.

[By Rev. JOHN NEWTON, born 1725; died 1807. He was the friend and pastor of William Cowper. In this poem he records the history of his conversion.]

IN evil y took ughter,

N evil long I took delight,

Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopp'd my wild career.

I saw one hanging on a tree,
In agonies and blood,

Who fix'd His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.

Sure, never to my latest breath
Can I forget that look:

It seem'd to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke.
My conscience felt and own'd the guilt,
And plunged me in despair:
I saw my sins His blood had spilt,
And helped to nail Him there.

A second look He gave, which said,
"I freely all forgive:

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This blood is for thy ransom paid:
I die, that thou mayest live."
Thus, while His death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,

Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.

Glorying in the Cross.

[Perhaps by JOHN BOWRING, LL. D., of England; born 1792.]

N the cross of Christ I glory,

IN

Towering o'er the wrecks of time:

All the light of sacred story

Gathers round its head sublime.
When the woes of life o'ertake me,
Hopes deceive, and fears annoy,
Never shall the cross forsake me:
Lo! it glows with peace and joy.
When the sun of bliss is beaming
Light and love upon my way,
From the cross the radiance streaming
Adds new lustre to the day.

Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure,
By the cross are sanctified:

Peace is there that knows no measure,
Joys that through all time abide.
In the cross of Christ I glory,

Towering o'er the wrecks of time :

All the light of sacred story

Gathers round its head sublime.

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Litany to the Holy Spirit.

[By ROBERT HERRICK, 1648.]

the hour of my distress, When tempations me oppress, And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When I lie within my bed,
Sick at heart and sick at head,
And with doubts disquieted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in sleep
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tempter me pursu❜th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is revealed,
And that opened which was sealed,
When to Thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

The Heart's Song.

[By ARTHUR CLEAVELAND COXE, D. D., Bishop of Western New York in the Protestant Episcopal Church; born in 1818, in New Jersey.]

Ν

IN the silent midnight watches,

List thy bosom-door;

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!

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Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating,
'Tis thy heart of sin;

"Tis thy Saviour stands entreating,
"Rise and let me in."

Death comes down with equal footstep
To the hall and hut;

Think you death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth ;
But thy door is fast;

Grieved, at length away He turneth ;
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand entreating
Christ to let thee in;
At the door of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot?

Jesus waited long to know thee,
But He knows thee not.

It is not Death to die.

[By GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D. D., LL. D., born in New York 1805; died in Florence, Italy, 1862. A distinguished clergyman of the Reformed Dutch Church.]

is not death to die,

To leave this weary road,

And, midst the brotherhood on high,
To be at home with God.

It is not death to close

The eye long dimm'd by tears,

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And wake in glorious repose
To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bear

The wrench that sets us free

From dungeon-chains, to breathe the air
Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to fling

Aside this sinful dust,

And rise on strong, exulting wing,

To live among the just.

Jesus, Thou Prince of Life,

Thy chosen cannot die!

Like Thee, they conquer in the strife,
To reign with Thee on high.

Jesus, my Redeemer, lives.

[By LOUISA HENRIETTA, Electress of Brandenburg, 1649, on the death of her son. Based on Job xix. 25-27 and 1 Cor. xv. A favorite hymn in Germany.]

ESUS, my Redeemer, lives,

JE

And His life I once shall see;
Bright the hope this promise gives,
Where He is I soon shall be.
Shall I fear then? Can the Head
Rise and leave the members dead?
Ye who suffer, sigh, and moan,
Fresh and glorious there shall reign;
Earthly here the seed is sown,
Heavenly it shall rise again;
Natural here the death we die,
Spiritual our life on high.