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Thine infant cries, O Lord,

Thy tears upon the breast,
Are not enough-the legal sword

Must do its stern behest.

Like sacrificial wine

Pour'd on a victim's head

Are those few precious drops of thine, Now first to offering led.

They are the pledge and seal
Of Christ's unswerving faith

Given to his Sire, our souls to heal,
Although it cost his death.

They to his church of old, To each true Jewish heart, In Gospel graces manifold Communion blest impart.

Now of thy love we deem
As of an ocean vast,

Mounting in tides against the stream

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Both theirs and ours Thou art,

As we and they are thine;

Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs—all have part

Along the sacred line.

By blood and water too

God's mark is set on Thee,

That in Thee every faithful view
Both covenants might see.

O bond of union, dear

And strong as is Thy grace! Saints, parted by a thousand year, May thus in heart embrace.

Is there a mourner true,
Who fallen on faithless days,

Sighs for the heart-consoling view
Of those, Heaven deign'd to praise ?

In spirit may'st thou meet

With faithful Abraham here,

Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet

A nursing Father dear.

Wouldst thou a Poet be?

And would thy dull heart fain Borrow of Israel's minstrelsy

One high enraptur'd strain?

Come here thy soul to tune,

Here set thy feeble chant, Here, if at all beneath the moon, Is holy David's haunt.

Art thou a child of tears,
Cradled in care and woe?

And seems it hard, thy vernal years
Few vernal joys can shew?

And fall the sounds of mirth

Sad on thy lonely heart,

From all the hopes and charms of earth

Untimely call'd to part?

Look here, and hold thy peace:

The Giver of all good

Even from the womb takes no release

From suffering, tears, and blood.

If thou wouldst reap in love,
First sow in holy fear:

So life a winter's morn may prove
To a bright endless year.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER

CHRISTMAS.

When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. Isaiah xli. 17.

AND wilt Thou hear the fever'd heart

To Thee in silence cry?

And as th' inconstant wildfires dart

Out of the restless eye,

Wilt Thou forgive the wayward thought,

By kindly woes yet half untaught

A Saviour's right, so dearly bought,

That Hope should never die?

Thou wilt for many a languid prayer

Has reach'd Thee from the wild, Since the lorn mother, wandering there, Cast down her fainting child",

Then stole apart to weep and die,
Nor knew an angel form was nigh
To shew soft waters gushing by
And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt-for Thou art Israel's God,
And thine unwearied arm

Is ready yet with Moses' rod,

The hidden rill to charm

Out of the dry unfathom❜d deep

Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,

Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap Their waves in rude alarm.

Those moments of wild wrath are thine

Thine too the drearier hour

When o'er th' horizon's silent line

Fond hopeless fancies cower,

P Hagar. See Gen. xxi. 15.

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