Imágenes de páginas


CREATOR of the rolling flood!

On whom thy people hope alone; Who cam'st, by water and by blood, For man's offences to atone ;

Who from the labors of the deep

Didst set thy servant Peter free,
To feed on earth thy chosen sheep,
And build an endless church to thee;

Grant us, devoid of worldly care,

And leaning on thy bounteous hand, To seek thy help in humble prayer, And on thy sacred rock to stand:

And when, our livelong toil to crown,
Thy call shall set the spirit free,
To cast with joy our burthen down,
And rise, O Lord, and follow thee.

SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. WHEN spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil;

When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil;

When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood,

In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good.

The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade;

The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade;

The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way,

The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent pomp display.

the lord of nature, expectant of the

Shall man, sky,

Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny?

No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be,

Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honor thee.

The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer fade,

The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake the shade;

The winds be lulled the sun and moon forget their old decree,

But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to thee.


JERUSALEM, Jerusalem! enthroned once on high, Thou favored home of God on earth, thou heaven below the sky,

Now brought to bondage with thy sons, a curse and grief to see,

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, our tears shall flow for thee.

O, hadst thou known 'thy day of grace, and flocked beneath the wing

Of him who called thee lovingly, thine own anointed King,

Then had the tribes of all the world gone up thy pomp to see,

And glory dwelt within thy gates, and all thy sons been free.

And who art thou that mournest me?' replied the ruin gray,

And fear'st not rather that thyself may prove a castaway?

I am a dried and abject branch,my place is given

to thee;

But wo to every barren graft of thy wild olive


'Our day of grace is sunk in night, our time of mercy spent,

For heavy was my children's crime, and strange their punishment;

Yet gaze not idly on our fall, but, sinner, warned


Who spared not his chosen seed may send his wrath on thee.

Our day of grace is sunk in night, thy noon is in its prime ;

O, turn and seek thy Saviour's face in this accepted time.

So, Gentile,may Jerusalem a lesson prove to thee, And in the new Jerusalem thy home for ever be.'

« AnteriorContinuar »