Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/101

 With folded arms on humble breast, By His own servant washed and blest:-

Then full of Heaven, the mystic Dove Hovering His gracious brow above, To shun the voice and eye of praise, And in the wild His trophies raise:-

With hymns of angels in His ears, Back to His task of woe and tears, Unmurmuring through the world to roam With not a wish or thought at home:-

All but Himself to heal and save, Till ripened for the cross and grave, He to His Father gently yield The breath that our redemption sealed:-

Then to unearthly life arise, Yet not at once to seek the skies, But glide awhile from saint to saint, Lest on our lonely way we faint;

And through the cloud by glimpses show How bright, in Heaven, the marks will glow Of the true cross, imprinted deep Both on the Shepherd and the sheep:-

When out of sight, in heart and prayer, Thy chosen people still to bear, And from behind Thy glorious veil, Shed light that cannot change or fail:-

This is Thy pastoral course, O LORD, Till we be saved, and Thou adored; - Thy course and ours—but who are they Who follow on the narrow way?

And yet of Thee from year to year The Church's solemn chant we hear, As from Thy cradle to Thy throne She swells her high heart-cheering tone.

Listen, ye pure white-robed souls, Whom in her list she now enrolls, And gird ye for your high emprize By these her thrilling minstrelsies.