The Christian Year Part 6

Light flashes in the gloomiest sky, And Music in the dullest plain, For there the lark is soaring high Over her flat and leafless reign, And chanting in so blithe a tone, It shames the weary heart to feel itself alone.

Brighter than rainbow in the north, More cheery than the matin lark, Is the soft gleam of Christian worth, Which on some holy house we mark; Dear to the pastor's aching heart To think, where'er he looks, such gleam may have a part;

May dwell, unseen by all but Heaven, Like diamond blazing in the mine; For ever, where such grace is given, It fears in open day to s.h.i.+ne, Lest the deep stain it owns within Break out, and Faith be shamed by the believer's sin.

In silence and afar they wait, To find a prayer their Lord may hear: Voice of the poor and desolate, You best may bring it to His ear; Your grateful intercessions rise With more than royal pomp, and pierce the skies.

Happy the soul whose precious cause You in the Sovereign Presence plead- "This is the lover of Thy laws, The friend of Thine in fear and need,"

For to the poor Thy mercy lends That solemn style, "Thy nation and Thy friends."

He too is blest whose outward eye The graceful lines of art may trace, While his free spirit, soaring high, Discerns the glorious from the base; Till out of dust his magic raise A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise,

Where far away and high above, In maze on maze the tranced sight Strays, mindful of that heavenly love Which knows no end in depth or height, While the strong breath of Music seems To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams.

What though in poor and humble guise Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born?

Yet from Thy glory in the skies Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn.

For Love delights to bring her best, And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest.

Love on the Saviour's dying head Her spikenard drops unblamed may pour, May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead In spices from the golden sh.o.r.e; Risen, may embalm His sacred name With all a Painter's art, and all a Minstrel's flame.

Worthless and lost our offerings seem, Drops in the ocean of His praise; But Mercy with her genial beam Is ripening them to pearly blaze, To sparkle in His crown above, Who welcomes here a child's as there an angel's love.

Fourth Sunday after Epiphany.

When they saw Him, they besought Him that He would depart out of their coasts. _St. Matthew_ viii. 34.

THEY know the Almighty's power, Who, wakened by the rus.h.i.+ng midnight shower, Watch for the fitful breeze To howl and chafe amid the bending trees, Watch for the still white gleam To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream, Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight.

They know the Almighty's love, Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove, Stand in the shade, and hear The tumult with a deep exulting fear, How, in their fiercest sway, Curbed by some power unseen, they die away, Like a bold steed that owns his rider's arm, Proud to be checked and soothed by that o'er-mastering chains.

But there are storms within That heave the struggling heart with wilder din, And there is power and love The maniac's rus.h.i.+ng frenzy to reprove, And when he takes his seat, Clothed and in calmness, at his Savour's feet, Is not the power as strange, the love as blest, As when He said, "Be still," and ocean sank to rest?

Woe to the wayward heart, That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start Of Pa.s.sion in her might, Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;- Pleased in the cheerless tomb To linger, while the morning rays illume Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade, Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid.

The storm is laid-and now In His meek power He climbs the mountain's brow, Who bade the waves go sleep, And lashed the vexed fiends to their yawning deep.

How on a rock they stand, Who watch His eye, and hold His guiding hand!

Not half so fixed, amid her va.s.sal hills, Rises the holy pile that Kedron's valley fills.

And wilt thou seek again Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain, And with the demons be, Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer's knee?

Sure 'tis no Heaven-bred awe That bids thee from His healing touch withdraw; The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd'st thy Lord depart.

He, merciful and mild, As erst, beholding, loves His wayward child; When souls of highest birth Waste their impa.s.sioned might on dreams of earth, He opens Nature's book, And on His glorious Gospel bids them look, Till, by such chords as rule the choirs above, Their lawless cries are tuned to hymns of perfect love.

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany.

Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear; but your iniquities have separated between you and your G.o.d. _Isaiah_ lix. 1, 2.

"WAKE, arm Divine! awake, Eye of the only Wise!

Now for Thy glory's sake, Saviour and G.o.d, arise, And may Thine ear, that sealed seems, In pity mark our mournful themes!"

Thus in her lonely hour Thy Church is fain to cry, As if Thy love and power Were vanished from her sky; Yet G.o.d is there, and at His side He triumphs, who for sinners died.

Ah! 'tis the world enthralls The Heaven-betrothed breast: The traitor Sense recalls The soaring soul from rest.

That bitter sigh was all for earth, For glories gone and vanished mirth.

Age would to youth return, Farther from Heaven would be, To feel the wildfire burn, On idolising knee Again to fall, and rob Thy shrine Of hearts, the right of Love Divine.

Lord of this erring flock!

Thou whose soft showers distil On ocean waste or rock, Free as on Hermon hill, Do Thou our craven spirits cheer, And shame away the selfish tear.

'Twas silent all and dead Beside the barren sea, Where Philip's steps were led, Led by a voice from Thee- He rose and went, nor asked Thee why, Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely way The high-born traveller came, Reading a mournful lay Of "One who bore our shame, Silent Himself, His name untold, And yet His glories were of old."

To muse what Heaven might mean His wondering brow he raised, And met an eye serene That on him watchful gazed.

No Hermit e'er so welcome crossed A child's lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love; The scrolls of sacred lore No darksome mazes prove; The desert tires no more They bathe where holy waters flow, Then on their way rejoicing go.

They part to meet in Heaven; But of the joy they share, Absolving and forgiven, The sweet remembrance bear.

Yes-mark him well, ye cold and proud.

Bewildered in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale At Rumour's angry din- No storm can now a.s.sail The charm he wears within, Rejoicing still, and doing good, And with the thought of G.o.d imbued.

No glare of high estate, No gloom of woe or want, The radiance can abate Where Heaven delights to haunt: Sin only bides the genial ray, And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

Then weep it from thy heart; So mayst thou duly learn The intercessor's part; Thy prayers and tears may earn For fallen souls some healing breath, Era they have died the Apostate's death.

Sixth Sunday after Epiphany.

Beloved, now are we the sons of G.o.d, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as he is. _St. John_ iii. 2.

THERE are, who darkling and alone, Would wish the weary night were gone, Though dawning morn should only show The secret of their unknown woe: Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain To ease them of doubt's galling chain: "Only disperse the cloud," they cry, "And if our fate be death, give light and let us die."

Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeet To profit by Thy chastenings sweet, For Thou wouldst have us linger still Upon the verge of good or ill.

That on Thy guiding hand unseen Our undivided hearts may lean, And this our frail and foundering bark Glide in the narrow wake of Thy beloved ark.

'Tis so in war-the champion true Loves victory more when dim in view He sees her glories gild afar The dusky edge of stubborn war, Than if the untrodden bloodless field The harvest of her laurels yield; Let not my bark in calm abide, But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.