Know thy Master was derided, Scorned in Pilate's judgment-hall.

Mourn not; Christ, the great Redeemer, Was despised and loathed by all.

Art thou torn with grief and anguish?

Racked with many a burning pain?

Does thy weary body languish?

Fearful pangs torment thy brain?

Murmur not; from Calvary's mountain List thy Master's dying groan!

Murmur not; thy great Redeemer Gave his life to save thine own!

Does the monster Death look dreary?

Fill thy mind with fears and gloom?

Does thy spirit, faint and weary, Shrink in terror from the tomb?

Know thy Master's gone before thee, Crossed the dark and narrow tide, Disarmed Death of all his terrors: Then fear not--thy Saviour died!

Yes, he died,--the Prince of Glory,-- Died upon the cursed tree; Pilgrim, spread the joyful story: Jesus died, and died for thee!

And he rose,--he rose triumphant,-- Burst the bars of death in twain.

Lonely pilgrim, that same Jesus Will return to earth again!

See the first faint beams of morning Chasing night and clouds away, All the glorious sky adorning; Pilgrim, it is break of day!

Rouse thee, pilgrim, weep no longer; Let thy glad Hosanna ring!

Jesus comes in power and glory; Hail thy Saviour and thy King!

ELIJAH.

He calmly stands on the mountain's brow.

G.o.d s.h.i.+eld thee, thou lonely prophet, now!

For thy friends are few, and thy foes are strong, And each heart beats high in that mocking throng; And every eye is fixed upon thee, As thou standest alone in thy majesty.

The prophets of Baal are many and great, And they move along in princely state; With a scornful eye and a haughty air, They have proudly taken their station there; While the blood of thy comrades stains the sod, And thou only art left a prophet of G.o.d.

Yet firm is thy step, and calm thy brow-- The Lord G.o.d of hosts is for thee now; And, strong in his strength, thou mayest advance, And defy the world with thy piercing glance; While the prophets of Baal bend at thy nod, And the people own that the Lord, he is G.o.d.

The sun s.h.i.+nes bright in the azure sky, And the morning breeze sweeps gently by, And all is quiet on earth, in air-- Not a sound escapes from that mult.i.tude there; Though eager each eye and troubled each mien, Yet the stillness of death reigns over the scene.

But a voice is heard; and clear and loud It breaks on the ears of the listening crowd; They quickly obey. A s.p.a.ce is cleared; The bullock is slain, the altar is reared; While the prophets of Baal around it bend, And implore their G.o.d an answer to send.

The day wears on, and the sun is high-- Still round that altar they madly cry; But the sky is serene as ever before, And, frantic with rage, they shout the more; But 't is all in vain; and the day has past, And the prophets of Baal have yielded at last.

Each heart beats high with anxiety there, As Elijah, with calm, majestic air, Alone and exposed to a nation's frown, Rebuilds the altar long since thrown down.

'T is the hour for the evening sacrifice now, And he solemnly kneels on the mountain's brow.

On, the name of the Lord his G.o.d he calls; When, lo! quick as lightning, the fire falls!

A smoke ascends to the vaulted sky, And with it arises a mingled cry; And bowed is each head, and bent is each knee As "The Lord, he is G.o.d!" rings loud o'er the sea.

'T is night, and the evening breeze grows chill; The prophet pleads with Jehovah still; He has seen the prophets of Baal slain.

And now he implores for the falling rain.

The heavens grow black at Jehovah's word; Arise, Elijah, thy prayer is heard!

THE SACRED PAGE.

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age Bend together earnestly o'er the Sacred Page; One amid spring blossoms, while the falling leaves Gather round the other sitting 'mid the sheaves; One amid the twilight of the coming day, While the shadows deepen round the other's way.

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age, Read the same sweet lessons from the Sacred Page; Eyes that brim with laughter, eyes that dim with years, Resting there pay tribute in a flood of tears; Rosy lips and pallid trembling at the cry-- Mournfully repeating the Sabachthani!

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age Draw their consolation from the Sacred Page; One is in the valley where the gra.s.s is green, While the other gazes on a wintry scene; Both have lost their birth-right-both have felt their loss, And they both regain it through the blessed Cross!

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age, Find their way to Heaven in the Sacred Page; Like the little children waiting to be blessed, One goes forth rejoicing to the Saviour's breast, While the other clingeth to his mighty arm, 'Mid the swelling Jordan feeling no alarm.

Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age, Come, and seek for treasures in the Sacred Page; To the one how tender is the Saviour's call; Yet the invitation He extends to all; Earthly fountains fail you--hasten to a.s.suage Every grief of childhood--every pang of age!

Oh, what a book is the Bible! There is enough in one verse to condemn the whole world, and enough in another to redeem it.

No man in a dark night can behold himself in a mirror until a lamp is lighted,--and not even then distinctly and perfectly until the dawn of day: so no man can see himself in G.o.d's mirror until the beams of the divine lamp [the Holy Spirit] illume his soul,--nor even then can he see perfectly what a wretched and distorted being he is "until the day break" and, being made like his Saviour, he contrasts what he is with what he once was.

BEHOLD HOW HE LOVED US.

While on the cross the Saviour bleeds, While friend nor foe his anguish heeds, While many a taunt and bitter jeer Break harshly on his holy ear, He prays,--what can that last prayer be?

Oh, wondrous love, he prays for me!

Deep anguish fills his troubled soul, The streams of blood in torrents roll; And louder railings now are heard; He breathes not one complaining word; Yet, hark! he prays,--what can it be?

Oh, wondrous love, he _prays_ for me!

He bows his head, Immanuel dies; Darkness o'erspreads the azure skies, Loud thunders shake the earth and air, And earthquakes heave in horror there; Angels the act with wonder see; Oh, matchless love, he _dies_ for me!

He leaves the dark and gloomy grave, While angel-pinions round him wave, And rising from the mountain's brow, Appears before his Father now; He pleads,--what can those pleadings be?

Oh, deathless love, he _pleads_ for me!

And can I then such scenes behold, And still be careless, still be cold?

Can I, with air of sinful pride, Cast such unbounded love aside?

My soul, oh, can it, _can it_ be?

Has Jesus died in vain for thee?

Oh, no! the crimson streams that glide From Calvary's deeply blood-stained side, Invite my soul, so stained with sin, To wash away its guilt therein; And in those precious drops I see Christ has not died in vain for me!

The Saviour pleads, in thrilling tone, Before his mighty Father's throne, That for his sake my guilty name Within the book of life may claim A place. He smiles; and now I see Christ does not plead in vain for me!