Hymns and Poems

The precious blood of Christ my Lord, The Saviour all-divine, Was shed to cleanse men’s souls from guilt; That blood has flowed for mine! But what return can sinners make For love so great, so free? All is too little, oh! my God, To sacrifice to Thee.

If all that I possessed on earth, Before thy feet were laid, Light as the dust the gift would prove In heaven’s balance weighed. The costly treasures of the skies Thou didst resign for me; All is too little, oh! my God, To sacrifice to Thee.

But Thou wilt not disdain a heart That would Thy word obey, That loves to own the mighty debt It never hopes to pay. For were each hair upon my head A separate life to be,[1] All were too little, oh! my God, To sacrifice to Thee.

II. THE RESURRECTION.

The Summer blossoms fast decay Beneath the Autumn’s chilling breath, And man is passing thus away, Touched by the silent hand of Death. Still fading—falling—day by day The withered petals strew the plain, They never more shall deck the spray— But man shall rise again!

Behold the bare and leafless tree Blushes in spring to beauty bright; Where the dark root was buried—see The eager floweret springs to light! The sun his gentle influence shed To break cold winter’s icy chain— So God shall wake us from the dead, We all shall rise again!

As beauteous day succeeds to night, So glory dawns upon the grave— Praise to the Sun of life and light, Who lived to bless, and died to save! We calmly gaze on life’s dark close, The tomb shall not our forms retain— E’en as our God and Saviour rose His own shall rise again!

III. HYMN FOR THE COMMUNION.

I do not dare, O holy Lord, Approach Thy sacred shrine Trusting in mine own righteousness, For nought but sins are mine, But in the merits of Thy Son, The Saviour all-divine.

Unworthy as I own I am Christ’s feast of love to share, In His name hear my humble cry, For His sake grant my prayer, And let Thy mercy cleanse my soul, And shed Thy Spirit there!

Oh, make me one with my dear Lord In His appointed rite, A branch of the Eternal Vine Not fruitless in His sight; His own on earth, His own in heaven Through ages infinite!

IV. THE BEACON.

When shades of night around him close, The lighthouse guard has charge to keep, And trim the beacon-fire, which glows Like a red star above the deep. Still calm and bright Must shine that light That guides the seaman on his way, Till morning gleam And lighthouse beam Fade in the rosy blush of day.

Like charge is to the Christian given In grief or joy, in storm or strife, To glorify the God of heaven Both by his lips and by his life. Still pure and bright Must shine his light, And shed around a holy ray, A flame of love Lit from above, And shining on to perfect day.

Pride, discontent, mistrustful fear, Too oft, alas! the beacon hide; The sinner must be humbled here That Jesus may be glorified. So pure and bright Shall shine his light, To other hearts a beam convey, A flame of love Lit from above, Still shining on to perfect day.

Lord, feed our lamps with heavenly grace, And let them to Thy glory shine, Nor let our weakness e’er disgrace The holy faith which seals us Thine! Then pure and bright Shall shine our light, Our heavenly Father’s grace display, A flame of love Lit from above, Still shining on to perfect day!

V. THE BLOSSOMING ROD.

An angel of comfort from heaven sped— All nature brightened as he drew near Where a poor man toiled in his lowly shed And thanked the Lord for his scanty bread; The angel breathed in the Christian’s ear, “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

He spread his pinions, then paused again Where prayer from a sick man’s couch was heard; In weary weakness, in restless pain, For tedious months had the sufferer lain, But his pale face beamed at the whispered word: “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

Then the angel flew where a mother prayed For a son on a course of evil bent; She wept—half trustful and half afraid, Beseeching Him who alone could aid; And to her was the message of comfort sent— “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

With cares depressed, and with trials worn, A persecuted believer knelt; With drooping heart she had meekly borne The unkind taunt and the look of scorn, Till the angel’s smile was like sunshine felt. “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

Then the seraph hovered where death had been, In its little coffin an infant lay; The parents wept, but a calm serene Stole over their souls, as a hand unseen Gently wiped the trickling tears away. “Your God beholds, and will not forget; Your bud shall blossom in glory yet!”

Happy such to whom griefs come not in vain, Though afflictions bow, or the world contemn, Thrice blest in sorrow, thrice blest in pain, Reproach is honour, and loss is gain, For the angel of peace shall visit them— Their God beholds, and will not forget; Their rod shall blossom in glory yet!

VI. HYMN FOR THE PENITENT CONVICT.

I dare not raise my guilty eye The gaze of man to meet, A helpless sentenced wretch I lie, Lord Jesus! at Thy feet. Too justly scorned by all beside, I trembling come to Thee; If Thou for chief of sinners died, Is there not hope for me?

The dying thief in torments hung While sinners scoffed around; With feeble breath and faltering tongue He mercy sought—and found. There flowed before his eyesight dim The blood which made him free; If Jesus heard and pitied him Is there not hope for me?

The weeping prodigal returned His father’s house to seek; His supplication was not spurned— Love still could welcome speak. Like him, in grief and penitence, To mercy’s door I flee, O Father, wilt thou spurn me thence; Is there not hope for me?

Yes, there is hope! while He, once crowned With thorns, now pleads in heaven, Rejoices o’er the lost one found, The wanderer forgiven; To those who mourn and turn from sin He offers mercy free; I feel another life begin— There yet is hope for me!

VII. HYMN FOR THE BLIND.

I cannot see the sunny gleam Which gladdens every eye but mine, But I can feel the warming beam, And bless the God who made it shine. O Lord, each murmuring thought control, Let no repining tear-drop fall, Pour holy light upon my soul, That I may own Thy love in all!

I cannot see the flow’rets blow, All sparkling from the summer showers, But I can breathe their sweet perfume, And bless the God who made the flowers. O Lord, each murmuring thought control, Let no repining tear-drop fall, Pour holy light upon my soul, That I may own Thy love in all!

I cannot see the pages where Thy holy will is written, Lord; But I can seek Thy house of prayer, And humbly listen to Thy word, Which bears my thoughts to that bright place Where I at Thy dear feet may fall, Behold my Saviour face to face, And see and own His love in all!

VIII. THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS.

The stately mansion riseth beneath the builder’s hand, When our children sleep in dust that mansion still may stand; But a nobler and more lasting dwelling to the saints is given, In a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.

The poor in spirit and the meek, the merciful and pure, On them the Saviour blessings breathed, for ever to endure; Those persecuted for His sake, from friends or kindred driven, Share a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.

And those who deeply mourn their sins shall find there yet is room, For such the Lord endured the cross, descended to the tomb; He ready stands to welcome those whose contrite hearts are riven, To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.

What matter, then, how lowly be the roof above our head, What matter then how soon the stranger o’er our graves may tread, If we are pressing on with hearts renewed and sins forgiven, To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven!

IX. SEXTON’S HYMN.

I’ve laid the earth above the child Whose life was but a summer’s day; I knew that God, in mercy mild, Had called his happy soul away. Then therefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap.

I’ve laid the earth above the youth Whose early days to God were given, Whose end bore witness to this truth, None die too soon who live for Heaven! Then wherefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap.