Thine infant cries, O Lord, Thy tears upon the breast, 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 Mounting in tides against the stream Of ages gone and past. 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 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, Sighs for the heart-consoling view 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, And seems it hard, thy vernal years 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, So life a winter's morn may prove 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, Thou wilt-for Thou art Israel's God, 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. |