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Christ's lovely voice floats through the air. Must fulfil their race of wo;

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Crush me ye rocks; ye falling mountains 'Tis heav'n, all heav'n descending on the

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Nature breaks nature's laws at his command; No force of hell or heav'n withstands his force;

Events to come yet many ages hence, He present makes, by wondrous prescience;

Proving the senses blind, by being blind to

sense.

His sky-like arms, dy'd all in blue and white,
And set with golden stars that flamed wide;
His shield invisible to mortal sight,
Yet he upon it easily descry'd

The living semblance of his dying Lord,
Whose bleeding side with wicked steel

was gor'd;

Which to his fainting spirits new courage would afford.

Strange was the force of that enchanted shield,

Which highest pow'rs to it from heav'n impart ;

For who could bear it well, and rightly wield; It sav'd from sword, and spear, and poison'd dart:

Well might he slip, but yet not wholly fall;

No final lust his courage might appal; Growing more sound by wounds, and rising

by his fall.

So some have feign'd that Tellus' giant son, Drew many new-born lives from his dead mother;

Another rose as soon as one was done,
And twenty lost, yet still remain'd another;
For when he fell, and kiss'd the barren
heath,

Receives with joy the promises he makes, Nor questions of his purpose or his power; He does not doubting ask, 'Can this be so?' The Lord has said it, and there needs no

more.

However deep be the mysterious word,

However dark, he disbelieves it not; Where Reason would examine, Faith obeys, And It is written,' answers every doubt.

In vain, with rude and overwhelming force, Conscience repeats her tale of misery; And powers infernal, wakeful to destroy, Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.

As evening's pale and solitary star

But brightens while the darkness gathers round;

So Faith, unmoved amidst surrounding storms,

Is fairest seen in darkness most profound.

HOPE.

ТЕАТЕ.

TRUE Hope is Jacob's staffe indeed,
True Hope is no Egyptian reed,
That springs from mire, or else can feed
On dirt or mud:

By Hope just men are sanctified,
In the same ocean safe at anchor ride,
Fearlesse of wrack by wind or tide,
By ebb or flood.

His parent straight inspir'd successive Hope's the top window of that ark,

breath;

Where all God's Noahs do embark;

And though herself was dead, yet ransom'd Hope lets in sky-light, else how dark him from death.

C. FRY.

FAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child, Serenely resting on its mother's arm, Reposing every care upon his God,

Sleeps on his bosom and expects no harm.

Were such a season!

Would'st thou not be engulph'd or drown'd, When storms and tempests gather round, Ere thou cast anchor, try the ground; Hope must have reason.

Hope hath a harvest in the spring,
In winter doth of summer sing,
Feeds on the fruits while blossoming,
Yet nips no bloom:

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