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Soldier, rest-but not for thee

Spreads the world her downy pillow; On the rock thy couch must be,

While around thee chafes the billow: Thine must be a watchful sleep,

Wearier than another's waking; Such a charge as thou dost keep Brooks no moment of forsaking.

Sleep, as on the battle-field,

Girded-grasping sword and shield: Those thou canst not name or number, Steal upon thy broken slumber.

Soldier, rise—the war is done :

Lo, the hosts of hell are flying, 'Twas thy Lord the battle won;

Jesus vanquished them by dying. Pass the stream-before thee lies

All the conquered land of glory; Hark!--what songs of rapture rise,

These proclaim the victor's story,

Soldier, lay thy weapons down,

Quit the sword, and take the crown; Triumph ! all thy foes are banished, Death is slain, and earth has vanished.



High on a throne of burnish'd gold,

With rays of Godhead crown'd,
Jehovah sat; his thunders roll'd,

And glory sparkled round.

His flowing train, of glittering white,

The spacious temple fill'd;
The angels, dazzled at the sight,

With wings their faces veil'd.

Around the throne, in burning row,

The six-wing'd seraphs stood;
While millions, flying to and fro,

Tun'd all their harps to God.

“ Thrice holy, holy Lord,” they cry,

" The God of Sabaoth thou; Thy glory fills the worlds on high,

And fills the world below."


ANON. O GRIEVE not for him with the wildness of

sorrow, As those who in hopeless despondency

weep: From God's holy word consolation we bor


For souls who in Jesus confidingly sleep.

Lament not your lov'd one, but triumph the

rather To think of the promise, the pray’r of the

Lamb; “Your joy shall be full,” and “I will, oh,

my Father! That those whom thou giv'st me may be where I am."


Nay, weep not for him—for the flower of the

morning So dear to your bosom, so fair in your eyes; But weep for the souls unbelievingly scorn

ing The counsel and truth of the “God only


He came to the cross when his young cheek

was blooming, And rais'd to the Lord the bright beam of

his eye;

And when o'er its beauty death's darkness

was glooming, The cross did uphold him, the Saviour was


I saw the black pall o'er his relics extended, I wept, but they were not the tear-drops

of woe: The pray'r of my soul that in fervour as

cended, Was, “Lord, when thou callest, like him

may I go!"



God of my life, to thee I call,
Afflicted at thy feet I fall,
When the great water-floods prevail,
Leave not my trembling heart to fail.

Friend of the friendless and the faint ! Where shall I lodge my deep complaint ? Where but with thee, whose open door Invites the helpless and the poor!

Did ever mourner plead with thee, And thou refuse that mourner's plea ? Does not the word still fix'd remain, That none shall seek thy face in vain ?

That were a grief I could not bear, Didst thou not hear and answer pray’r; But a prayer-hearing, answ'ring God, Supports me under ev'ry load.

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