Page:Poems of home and country (IA poemsofhomecount01smit).pdf/279

 He speaks in creation; He rules o'er the flood, Through Nature's wide realm the Onmipotent God; But chooses the temples we build to His praise, As shrines for His name, and abodes of His grace.

Then come where we wait Thy blessing to prove, Thou, strong to redeem, and Thou, matchless in love; Like light breaking forth from the gates of the morn, May rays from Thy glory this temple adorn!

WAS at the grave of Lazarus, The two fond sisters, in their sackcloth robes, Drenched in affliction, and the godless Jews, In that one scene made lovely, as they went To weep with Mary at the sepulchre, Stood there, a grieving circle. She came forth, Obedient, e'en in sorrow, to the call Of Him who called for her. There was no voice Among the whited stones that pointed out The home of dead men, and no scenery, Or sweet, or gorgeous, in the hills or vales Of loveliest form and hue that spread around them, To call forth a moment's admiration; There was one absorbing sense of sorrow, That burned at the heart's core. The glorious voice Of Him who raised, triumphant, the dead brother Had not broke out in holy thanksgiving; But there they stood, consumed by their deep grief, And there—there, Jesus wept.