WHERE high the heavenly temple stands, The house of God not made with hands, A great High Priest our nature wears, The guardian of mankind appears.
He who for men their surety stood,
And pour'd on earth his precious blood,
Pursues in heaven his mighty plan,
The Saviour and the friend of man.
Though now ascended up on high,
He bends on earth a brother's eye ;
Partaker of the human name,
He knows the frailty of our frame.
Our fellow-suff'rer yet retains
A fellow-feeling of our pains,
And still remembers in the skies,
His tears, his agonies, and cries.
E
In ev'ry pang that rends the heart,
The Man of Sorrows had a part;
He sympathises with our grief,
And to the suff'rer sends relief.
With boldness, therefore, at the throne
Let us make all our sorrows known,
And ask the aids of heav'nly power
To help us in the evil hour.
WHEN Jordan hush'd his waters still,
And silence slept on Zion hill;
When Bethlehem's shepherds through the
night
Watch'd o'er their flocks by starry light;
Hark! from the midnight hills around,
A voice of more than mortal sound,
In distant hallelujahs stole,
Wild murm'ring o'er the raptur'd soul.
Then swift to every startled eye,
New streams of glory light the sky;
Heav'n bursts her azure gates to pour
Her spirits to the midnight hour.
On wheels of light, on wings of flame,
The glorious hosts of Zion came;
High heav'n with songs of triumph rung,
While thus they struck their harps and sung.
o Zion! lift thy raptur'd eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.
See, Mercy from her golden urn
Pours a rich stream to them that mourn;
Behold, she binds, with tender care,
The bleeding bosom of despair.
He comes, to cheer the trembling heart,
Bids Satan and his host depart;
Again the day-star gilds the gloom,
Again the bow'rs of Eden bloom!
O Zion! lift thy raptur'd eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.
GOD GLORIFIED IN ALL HIS WORKS.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's praise display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the listening Earth,
Repeats the story of her birth :
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball,
What though nor voice nor minstrel sound Among their radiant orbs be found.
With saints and angels they rejoice,
And utter forth their glorious voice :
For ever singing as they shine,
" The hand that made us is Divine !”
THE SONG OF THE ANGELS AT
BETHLEHEM.
CAWOOD.
HARK! what mean those holy voices,
Sweetly sounding through the skies?
Lo! the angelic host rejoices;
Heavenly hallelujahs rise.
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