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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 God. Isaiah lix. 1, 2.

Wake, arm Divine! awake,

Eye of the only Wise!

Now for Thy glory’s sake,

Saviour and God, 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 vanish’d from her sky;

Yet God 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 vanish’d 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 dead2727See Acts viii. 26-40.

Beside the barren sea,

Where Philip’s steps were led,

Led by a voice from Thee —

He rose and went, nor ask’d Thee why,

Nor stay’d to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely way

The high-born traveller came,

Reading a mournful lay

Of “One who bore our shame,2828Isaiah liii. 6-8.

Silent Himself, His name untold,

And yet His glories were of old.”

To muse what Heaven might mean

His wondering brow he rais’d,

And met an eye serene

That on him watchful gaz’d.

No Hermit e’er so welcome cross’d

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.

Bewilder’d in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale

At Rumour’s angry din —

No storm can now assail

The charm he wears within,

Rejoicing still, and doing good,

And with the thought of God imbu’d.

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 th’ Apostate’s death.

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