Yet, Oh! if greatly blest, more deeply curst, For which of all thy Prophets didst thou

spare?

That on thee might God's righteous vengeance burst,

And give thee for their blood thine own due share!

Yet, this thy greatest sin, that thou didst shed
The blood of Christ upon the accursed tree;
Sparing a robber's life, a murderer's head,
To kill the Prince of life with mockery.

Tremendous guilt! which earthquake's awful

roar

'Midst noonday darkness might alone record; Awful forewarning of the judgment sore,

Revealed against thee in God's holy Word.

Yet, Oh! how often would thy Saviour's voice Have bid thy children turn and sin no more; Calling them 'neath his shelter to rejoice,

Even as the hen her brood hath covered o'er.

And, yet thou wouldst not! Therefore dost thou stand

A warning in thy ruined state, to show The fate of those who still refuse Christ's hand, When stretched out to save from endless woe.

No. 58.

The Marriage Supper.

St. Luke, xiv. 16-24.

THE feast's prepared, the attendants ready stand,
The host expectant waits, yet waits in vain;
No chariot wheels approach, nor courtly band,
Rein in their prancing steeds with glittering
train.

In vain the banner floats from hill and tower,
In vain the martial music greets the ear;
No guest approaches in that festive hour,
No friends invited in that hall appear.

Have all alike forgot; or, do they scorn
The gracious invitations duly sent ?
Alas! from each some vain excuse is borne,
Each on his own concerns is more intent.

One pleads a farm he newly has obtained,
And one must try some oxen he has bought;
And one by nuptial feast at home's detained,
Thus all their host's kind summons set at naught.

And now does anger rise, where love was meant,
And soon shall other guests invited be;

If nobles have an ear unwilling lent,
The poor will not despise the courtesy.

And soon adown the hill, and through the wood,
And up the vale, new guests invited come;
Each humble cottage of that neighbourhood,
Has sent the halt, the blind, the lame, the deaf
and dumb.

E'en such, O Lord, is still thy Gospel feast,
Where all alike invited are by thee;
Yet, seldom there is found the noble guest,
Or rich, or wise in vain philosophy.

Some earthly trifles still their thoughts engross, Thy truth they cannot see through hindering

mote;

Or, whilst they think perchance they bear the

cross,

'Tis only like the Templar, on his coat.

But, to the poor thy gracious message comes,

As to the parched tongue thy fountain pure; As warmth to him whose limbs the cold benumbs, As medicine to the sick their ills to cure.

Oh! grant me grace, O Lord, thy voice to know,
Give me a willing heart to come to thee;
That when through death's dark vale at length I go,
I may amongst thine own accounted be.

No. 59.

The Prodigal Son.

St. Luke, xv. 11-32.

How still beside that quiet home
All outward things appear;
It seems as if no care might come,
No sorrow linger near;

Sure there at least must peace be found,

Where all so quiet is around.

Beneath that roof an aged sire

Dwells ever with his own;

Free from ambition's strong desire,

His days and nights have flown;

One duteous son alone obeys,
And with his aged father stays.

Another son that parent had,
Perchance he is not dead,

And yet he's lost; and therefore sad
He bows his silvery head;

And brooding o'er his secret grief,
He finds that time brings no relief.

For, nor by love or fear restrained,
He scorned the mild reproof;
And soon as manhood he attained,
Forsook his father's roof;

And He, the indulgent parent, blessed,
And gave him half that he possessed.

To foreign lands afar he went,
And rumour soon was rife ;

That there his substance he had spent
In an ungodly life;

Till, by severest famine led,

Cared for by none, with swine he fed.

But, God by sorrow changed his heart, And to himself he came;

For ever 'tis affliction's part

To show the guilt and shame Of foulest sin, when grace divine Does on the contrite spirit shine.

And now again his home he sought,

A humble, altered man;

Yet, ere the welcome news was brought,

His father saw and ran,

And fell upon his neck and wept,

That God such bliss for him had kept.

And now 'twas joy and gladness all
Beneath that happy roof;

And feast and song in court and hall,
To the lost son gave proof

How penitence can ever move
A father's heart to thoughts of love.