From out thy mighty bosom Oh! come, Thou high, beneficent Our country, altar, prophet! Through doubt, through pain, through outrage, Through pangs of dissolution Wringing our tortured hearts; In Thee, eternal, limitless, Are one in Thine infinity; Rapt by Thy power, the Spirit Springs ever high and higher Through care and grief and love, Idylls of love and tenderness, Like an inspired Sibyl Thou thunderest in anger, Ah me! what countless miseries, Dost Thou, on ample pinions, Lift purified to Heaven! The Light and Glory of the World HE Spirit breathes upon the word, THE And brings the truth to sight; Precepts and promises afford A sanctifying light. A glory gilds the sacred page, It gives a light to every age,- The hand that gave it still supplies Let everlasting thanks be thine, As makes a world of darkness shine * * WILLIAM COWPER. The Bible BLESSED Bible! how I love it! How it doth my bosom cheer! Could he from earth's treasures borrow, Yes, I'll to my bosom press thee, When This Book brought back thy wanderings, Yes, sweet Bible! I will hide thee Thou, through all my life will guide me, Part in death? No! never! never! Then, in worlds above, for ever, PHOEBE PAlmer. The Written Word THE starry firmament on high, Yet shine not to Thy praise, O Lord, The hopes that holy word supplies, When, taught by painful proof to know The sinner roams from comfort far, Soft gleaming then those lights divine, Almighty Lord, the sun shall fail, But, fixed for everlasting years, When heaven and earth have passed away. SIR ROBERT GRANT. The Book of God THY thoughts are here, my God, The utterance of heavenly lips Across the ages they Have reached us from afar, Than the bright gold more golden they, Purer than purest star. More durable they stand Than the eternal hills; Far sweeter and more musical Than music of earth's rills. Fairer in their fair hues, Than the fresh flowers of earth, More fragrant than the fragrant climes Where odors have their birth. Each word of thine a gem A sunbeam from that holy heaven Thine, Thine, this book, though given In man's poor human speech, Telling of things unseen, unheard, Beyond all human reach. No strength it craves or needs, No filling up from human wells, No light from sons of time, A thousand hammers keen, With fiery force and strain, Brought down on it in rage and hate, |