4 With sinners he conversed, and gave Peace to the weary, troubled mind; Yet free from stain till life's last hour, In him his foes no fault could find.

5 Born 'midst the humblest sons of earth, All earth's temptations he withstood; And yet all human praise renounced, Declaring G.o.d alone is good.

126. P. M. Anonymous.

He Had Not Where to Lay His Head.

1 Birds have their quiet nest, Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful bed; All creatures have their rest, But Jesus had not where to lay his head.

2 And yet he came to give The weary and the heavy-laden rest; To bid the sinner live, And soothe our griefs to slumber on his breast.

3 Let the birds seek their nest, Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful bed; Come, Saviour, in my breast Come and repose thine oft rejected head!

4 Come! give me rest, and take The only rest on earth thou lov'st, within A heart that for thy sake Shall purify itself from every sin.

127. L. M. Russell.

Through His Poverty Made Rich.

1 On the dark-wave of Galilee The gloom of twilight gathers fast; And o'er the waters heavily Sweeps cold and drear the evening blast.

2 Still near the lake, with weary tread, Lingers a form of human kind; And on his lone, unsheltered head, Flows the chill night-damp of the wind.

3 Why seeks he not a home of rest?

Why seeks he not the pillowed bed?

Beasts have their dens, the bird his nest;-- He hath not where to lay his head.

4 Such was the lot he freely chose, To bless, to save, the human race; And through his poverty there flows A rich, full stream of heavenly grace.

128. L. M. *Gaskell.

Christ The Sufferer.

1 Dark were the paths our Master trod, Yet never failed his trust in G.o.d; Cruel and fierce the wrongs he bore, Yet he but felt for man the more.

2 Unto the cross in faith he went, His Father's willing instrument; Upon the cross his prayer arose In pity for his ruthless foes.

3 O, may we all his kindred be, By holy love and sympathy; Still loving man through every ill, And trusting in our Father's will!

129. L. M. Bulfinch.

Christ The Sufferer.

1 O suffering Friend of human kind!

How, as the fatal hour drew near, Came thronging on thy holy mind The images of grief and fear.

2 Gethsemane's sad midnight scene, The faithless friends, the exulting foes, The th.o.r.n.y crown, the insult keen, The scourge, the cross, before thee rose.

3 Did not thy spirit shrink dismayed, As the dark vision o'er it came; And though in sinless strength arrayed, Turn, shuddering, from the death of shame?

4 Onward, like thee, through scorn and dread, May we our Father's call obey, Steadfast thy path of duty tread, And rise, through death, to endless day.

130. L. M. Doddridge.

"Thy Will, Not Mine, Be Done."

1 "Father divine!" the Saviour cried, While horrors pressed on every side, And prostrate on the ground he lay, "Remove this bitter cup away.

2 "But if these pangs must still be borne, Or helpless man be left forlorn, I bow my soul before thy throne, And say,--Thy will, not mine, be done!"

3 Thus our submissive souls would bow, And, taught by Jesus, lie as low; Our hearts, and not our lips alone, Would say,--Thy will, not ours, be done!

131. L. M. Anonymous.

"Let This Cup Pa.s.s From Me."

1 A voice upon the midnight air, Where Kedron's moonlit waters stray, Weeps forth in agony of prayer, "O Father, take this cup away!"

2 Ah, thou who sorrow'st unto death, We conquer in thy mortal fray; And earth for all her children saith, "O G.o.d, take not this cup away!"

3 O Lord of sorrow, meekly die; Thou'lt heal or hallow all our woe; Thy peace shall still the mourner's sigh; Thy strength shall raise the faint and low.

4 Great chief of faithful souls, arise; None else can lead the martyr band, Who teach the soul how peril flies, When faith, unarmed, uplifts the hand.