And was it nothing then to feel
A mother's love, and do her part, While soft hands o'er the bosom steal,
And soft cheeks press against the heart? Nay, let us kneel together, love,
And bow the head, and kiss the rod; We gave an heir to heaven above,
A child to praise the Christ of God.
He would have infant trebles ringing
The glories of the great I AM;
He would have childish voices singing
The hallelujahs of the Lamb;
And shall we faint in grief's desire
Because this grace to us is given,
To have a babe amid the choir
White-robed around the throne of heaven?
We had a joy unto us given
Transcending any earthly pleasance;
We had a messenger from heaven;
Let us be better for her presence.
Our mother earth where she is laid
Is dearer to my heart for her :
We have such kindred with the dead,
The very grave is lightsomer.*
THE CHILD'S ANGEL.
REV. W. B. ROBERTSON, D.D., IRVINE, AYRSHIRE.
ELDER sister, elder brother,
Come and go around the mother,
As she bids them come and go; But the babe in her embrace
Rests and gazes on her face,
And is most happy so.
* Good Words, May, 1863: London, A. Strahan & Co.
Dropping from her lips and eyes,
Soft and hidden harmonies
Steal into her infant's heart:
Mirror'd in clear depths below,
Gleams of mystic beauty flow,
And fix, and ne'er depart.
Christ, our Lord, in His evangel,
Tells us how the young child's angel,
In the world of heavenly rest,
Gazes in enraptured trance
On His Father's countenance,
And is supremely blest.
Other angels come and go,
As the Lord will, to and fro:
Some to earth, on missions fleet, Some stand singing, some are winging Their swift flight, and homeward bringing The saved to Jesus' feet.
Angel hosts all mingling, changing,
Circle above circle ranging,
Marshalling, throng God's holy place:
But the children's angels, dearest
To the Father's heart, come nearest,—
They always see His face.
And oh if earthly beauty, beaming From frail mother's face, rush streaming
Deep into her infant's heart,-What rare beauty must theirs be, Heavenly God, who gaze on Thee, Who see Thee as Thou art!
THE DEPARTED NIGH.
REV. W. B. ROBERTSON, D.D., IRVINF. DEPARTED, say we? is it
Departed, or Come Nigh?
Dear friends in Christ more visit
Than leave us when they die.
What thin vail still may hide them
Some little sickness rends,
And, lo! we stand beside them;
Are they departed friends?
Their dews on Zion mountain
Our Hermon hills bedew;
Their river from the Fountain
Flows down to meet us, too.
The oil on the head, and under,
Down to the skirts hath run;
And though we seem asunder,
We still in Christ are one.
The many tides of ocean
Are one vast tidal wave,
That sweeps, in landward motion,
Alike to coast and cave;
And Life, from Christ outflowing,
Is one wave evermore,
To earth's dark caverns going,
Or heaven's bright pearly shore.
Hail, perfected immortals!
Even now we bid you hail! We at the blood-stained portals,
And ye within the vail!
The thin cloud-vail between us
Is mere dissolving breath,
One heavens surround, and screen us;
And where art thou,-O Death?
THE INFANT CHOIR IN HEAVEN.
JAMES MONTGOMERY, SHEFFIELD.
HAPPY, thrice happy were they thus to die,
Rather than grow into such men and women—
Such fiends incarnate as that felon sire
Who dug its grave before his child was born;
Such miserable wretches as that mother
Whose tender mercies were so deadly cruel!
I saw their infant's spirit rise to heaven,
Caught from its birth up to the throne of God;
There, thousands and ten thousands I beheld
Of innocents like this, that died untimely,
By violence of their unnatural kin,
Or by the mercy of that gracious Power,
Who gave them being, taking what He gave
Ere they could sin or suffer like their parents.
I saw them in white raiment, crowned with flowers,
On the fair banks of that resplendent river
Whose streams make glad the city of our God—
Water of Life as clear as crystal, welling
Forth from the throne itself, and visiting
Fields of a Paradise that ne'er was lost;
Where yet the Tree of Life immortal grows,
And bears its monthly fruits, twelve kinds of fruit,
Each in its season, food of saints and angels;
Whose leaves are for the healing of the nations.
Beneath the shadow of its blessed boughs
I mark'd those rescued infants, in their schools,
By spirits of just men made perfect, taught
The glorious lessons of Almighty Love,
Which brought them thither in the readiest path
From the world's wilderness of dire temptations,
Securing thus their everlasting weal.
Yea, in the rapture of that hour, though songs
Of cherubim to golden lyres and trumpets,
And the redeemed upon the sea of glass,
With voices like the sound of many waters,
Came on mine ear, whose secret cells were open'd
To entertain celestial harmonies-
The small, sweet accents of those little children,
Pouring out all the gladness of their souls
In love, joy, gratitude, and praise to Him-
Him who had lov'd and wash'd them in his blood;
These were to me the most transporting strains
Amidst the hallelujahs of all Heaven.
Though lost awhile in that amazing chorus
Around the throne, at happy intervals
The shrill hosannas of the infant choir,
Singing in that eternal temple, brought
Tears to mine eye, whilst seraphs had been glad
To weep, could they have felt the sympathy
That melted all my soul, when I beheld
How condescending Deity thus deign'd,
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings here,
To perfect His high praise ;—the harp of heaven
Had lack'd its least but not its meanest string,
Had children not been taught to play upon it,
And sing, from feelings all their own, what men
Nor angels can conceive of creatures, born
Under the curse, yet from the curse redeem'd,
And placed at once beyond the power to fall-
Safety which men nor angels ever knew,
Till ranks of these, and all of those had fallen.*
* Pelican Island. By James Montgomery. London: Edward Moxon & Co.
|