Its thoughts and passions bid Thou roll
Each in its channelled bed;
Till that in peaceful order flowing,
They time their glad obedient going
To Thy commands, whose voice to-day
Bade the tumultuous floods obey.
For, restless as the moaning sea,
The wild and wayward will
From side to side is wearily
Changing and tossing still;
But swayed by Thee, 't is like the river
That down its green banks flows for ever,
And calm and constant tells to all
The blessedness of such sweet thrall.
Then in my heart, Spirit of might,
Awake the life within,
And bid a spring-tide, calm and bright,
Of holiness begin :
So let it lie with Heaven's grace
Full shining on its quiet face,
Like the young earth in peace profound,
Amid the assuagèd waters round.
THE SEVENTH DAY OF CREATION
ABBATH of the saints of old,
Day of mysteries manifold;
By the great Creator blest,
Type of His eternal rest:
I with thoughts of thee would seek
To sanctify the closing week
Resting from His work, the Lord
Spake to-day the hallowing word;
And, His wondrous labors done,
Now the everlasting Son
Gave to heaven and earth the sign
Of a wonder more divine.
Resting from His work to-day,
In the tomb the Saviour lay,
His sacred form from head to feet
Swathed in the winding-sheet,
Lying in the rock alone,
Hid beneath the sealed stone.
All the seventh day long I ween
Mournful watched the Magdalene,
Rising early, resting late,
By the sepulchre to wait,
In the holy garden glade
Where her buried Lord was laid.
So with Thee till life shall end
I would solemn vigil spend ;
Let me hew Thee, Lord, a shrine
In this rocky heart of mine,
Where in pure embalmèd cell
None but Thou may'st ever dwell.
Myrrh and spices I will bring,
My poor affection's offering,
Close the door from sight and sound
Of the busy world around,
And in patient watch remain
Till my Lord appear again.
Then, the new creation done,
Shall be Thy endless rest begun ;
Jesu, keep me safe from sin,
That I with them may enter in,
And danger past, and toil at end,
To Thy resting-place ascend.
HILE snows, even from the mild south-west,
Come blinding o'er all day,
What kindlier home, what safer nest
For flower or fragrant spray, Than underneath some cottage roof, Where fires are bright within, And fretting cares scowl far aloof, And doors are closed on sin?
The scarlet tufts so cheerily
Look out upon the snow,
But gayer smiles the maiden eye
Whose garden care they know.
The buds that in that nook are born,
Through the dark howling day
Old Winter's spite they laugh to scorn:
Who is so safe as they?
Nay, look again, beside the hearth
The lowly cradle mark,
Where, weary with his ten hours' mirth,
Sleeps in his own warm ark
A bright-haired babe, with arm upraised
As though the slumberous dew
Stole o'er him, while in faith he gazed
Upon his guardian true.
Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes
Deform the quiet bower;
They may not mar the deep repose
Of that immortal flower.
Though only broken hearts be found
To watch his cradle by,
No blight is on his slumbers sound,
No touch of harmful eye.
So gently slumbered on the wave
The new-born seer of old,
Ordained the chosen tribes to save;
Nor deemed how darkly rolled
The waters by his rushy bark,
Perchance e'en now defiled
With infant's blood for Israel's sake,
Blood of some priestly child.
What recks he of his mother's tears,
His sister's boding sigh?
The whispering reeds are all he hears,
And Nile, soft weltering nigh,
Sings him to sleep, but he will wake,
And o'er the haughty flood
Wave his stern rod; and lo! a lake,
A restless sea of blood!
Soon shall a mightier flood thy call
And outstretched rod obey;
To right and left the watery wall
From Israel shrinks away.
Such honor wins the faith that gave
Thee, and thy sweetest boon
Of infant charms to the rude wave,
In the third joyous moon.
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