For dower of blessèd children, For high mysterious union Which nought on earth may break. Be present, awful Father, To give away this bride, As Eve Thou gavest to Adam Be present, Son of Mary, To join their loving hands, Be present, Holiest Spirit, To bless them as they kneel, Oh, spread Thy pure wing o'er them, To cast their crowns before Thee Till to the home of gladness With Christ's own Bride they rise. The Child. REV. JOHN NEWTON. QUIET, Lord, my froward heart, Make me teachable and mild; Upright, simple, free from art, Make me as a weanèd child: From distrust and envy free, Pleased with all that pleases Thee. What Thou shalt to-day provide, 'Tis enough that Thou wilt care; As a little child relies On a care beyond his own; Knows he's neither strong nor wise, Fears to stir a step alone; Let me thus with Thee abide, As my Father, Guard, and Guide. Children Praising Christ. Thus preserved from Satan's wiles, Till the promised hour appears, When the sons of God shall prove Children Praising Christ. JAMES MONTGOMERY. WHEN HEN Jesus left His Father's throne, Like us, unhonour'd and unknown, Like Him, may we be found below Jesus pass'd by the rich and great For men of low degree; He sanctified our parents' state, Sweet were His words, and kind His look, And on His bosom bless'd. Safe from the world's alluring harms, Thus in the circle of His arms May we for ever lie! 377 When Jesus into Salem rode, The children sang around; For joy they pluck'd the palms, and strowed Their garments on the ground. Hosanna our glad voices raise, Hosanna to our King! Should we forget our Saviour's praise, Hymn for a Child. REV. JOHN S. B. MONSELL, D.D. OD of that glorious gift of grace G° By which Thy people seek Thy face, When in Thy presence we appear, Confiding in Thy truth alone, Here, on the steps of Jesus' throne, Lent to us for a season, we Large and abundant blessings shed, Fresh as these drops upon his face! The Childhood of Christ. Make him and keep him Thine own child, The Childhood of Christ. BISHOP REGINALD HEBER. Y cool Siloam's shady rill, BY How sweet the lily grows; How sweet the breath beneath the hill So such the child whose early feet By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away; And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow's And stormy passions' rage. power O Thou whose infant feet were found Whose years with changeless virtue crown'd Dependent on Thy bounteous breath, We seek Thy grace alone In childhood, manhood, age, and death, 379 |