And there full oft on Sabbath day,
When high and low have met to pray,
With solemn voice the white-robed priest
Bids each one to a heavenly feast

Of food from Heaven to drink and eat,
And Christ their Saviour there to meet.

And come not all with eager haste
To sup with God, and freely taste
Of heavenly food? alas! for man,
Though on this earth so short his span,
He better loves the things of earth
Than all God gives of heavenly worth.

Few, when that heavenly feast is spread,
Draw near with joy: the wine, the bread,
By which through faith on Him we feed,
Who on the cross for us did bleed,
From these they turn with cold neglect,
For empty toys with tinsel decked.

Oh! grant me, Lord, repentance deep,
That o'er my sins I still may weep;
And give me faith on thee to feed,
Thy blood, and that alone, to plead ;
And clothe me in thy wedding dress,
The robe of thine own righteousness.

Then when thou comest thy guests to see,
I may go in and sit with thee,
Whilst they, alas! who'd not receive
The robe that thou alone canst weave,
Though here the first, shall be the last,
And into outer darkness cast.

No. 23.

The Whited Sepulchre.

St. Matt. xxiii. 27, 28.

How bright and pure the light that glows
From Egypt's western sky;

Whilst clear the graceful palm-tree shows,
Bending o'er tombs in still repose,
Where kings and princes lie.

But how their honour's come to naught,
Their pride all passed away;
Who by those gorgeous temples thought
An endless glory to have bought,
Which ne'er should know decay.

Yet still the pyramids are there,
And Carnac's pillars stand;
And statues fresh, as if they were
But yesterday the sculptor's care,
Gleam o'er the desert sand.

And still the Nile is flowing nigh,
And bright the lotos springs;
And clear and blue the summer sky
As when the funeral pomp passed by
Of those forgotten kings.

But see where wanton spoilers force

Yon richly-carved chest;

And what their prize?—a blackened corse; They drag it forth without remorse

A mockery and a jest.

That rich sarcophagus naught contains
But bones and mouldering dust;

And soon the sand of desert plains
Shall drift o'er those despised remains
A far more fitting crust.

And such is man, who e'er in pride
On outward works shall rest;

And think that prayers and alms shall hide
The secret sins that e'er abide

Concealed within their breast.

As painted sepulchres they are,
Where all is vile within;

To men perchance their life is fair,

But God, who reads the heart, sees there Hypocrisy and sin.

Oh! then that each his heart might see,

E'en as 'tis seen of God;

That we might now to Jesus flee,

From hidden sins our hearts to free

And cleanse us in his blood.

No. 24.

Christ's Second Coming.

St. Matt. xxiv. 37-42.

SEE'ST thou yon mountain rear its head,
Which snows eternal crown?

Four thousand years and more have fled
Since Noah there, beneath him spread,
On a new world looked down.

Armenia's plains he saw below,
Yet silent then as death;
Save from the torrent's rapid flow,

Which scarcely yet its bounds might know
In the deep dell beneath.

And yet those plains, which then so still

And solitary lay,

A race ungodly late did fill,—

Cain's cursed crew, who Satan's will
Wrought there from day to day.

They mocked at sin, they mocked at fear, They mocked at death and hell;

They mocked when told the flood was near, And Noah's faith they met with sneer,

When urged their fate to tell.

But whilst the marriage feast was made,
And loud the midnight song,

And jests went round, and minstrels played,
The flood, which might not be delayed,
Swept them to death along.

E'en such, O Lord, thine advent too,
When thou shalt come at last;
Like thief, when there is none to view,
Like lightning flash, which quickly flew,
Scarce seen and it is passed.

Yet that brief moment shall translate
The chosen few to Heaven;

And faithless man to endless hate,
To hell and Satan's awful state,

In chains 'midst darkness riven.