Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/131



The dearest offering He can crave His portion in our souls to prove, What is it to the gift He gave, The only Son of His dear love?

But we, like vexed unquiet sprights, Will still be hovering o'er the tomb, Where buried lie our vain delights, Nor sweetly take a sinner's doom.

In Life's long sickness evermore Our thoughts are tossing to and fro: We change our posture o'er and o'er, But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.

Were it not better to lie still, Let Him strike home and bless the rod, Never so safe as when our will Yields undiscerned by all but God?

Thy precious things, whate'er they be, That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain, Look to the Cross and thou shalt see How thou mayst turn them all to gain.

Lovest thou praise? the Cross is shame: Or ease? the Cross is bitter grief: More pangs than tongue or heart can frame Were suffered there without relief.

We of that Altar would partake, But cannot quit the cost—no throne Is ours, to leave for Thy dear sake - We cannot do as Thou hast done.

We cannot part with Heaven for Thee - Yet guide us in Thy track of love: Let us gaze on where light should be, Though not a beam the clouds remove.

So wanderers ever fond and true Look homeward through the evening sky, Without a streak of heaven's soft blue To aid Affection's dreaming eye.

The wanderer seeks his native bower, And we will look and long for Thee, And thank Thee for each trying hour, Wishing, not struggling, to be free.