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My fearful spirit clings to Thee,
And helpless hangs upon Thy breast;
Thy precious love is life to me,
Jesus, Thy blood has bought me, I am Thine.
In this poor heart, flows Thy own life divine.
In the fierce hour of Satan's sway,
When my weak soul with terror reels,
Without the power to drive away
The fearful gloom, that o'er her steals;
E'en then a glorious ray of light divine,
O'er my dark soul with heavenly power shall shine.
Still, still Thy love is left to me,
The bonds that link my soul to thee,
Yet a brief hour, and I shall reach the gaol-
The heavenly shore, and rest my weary soul.
"Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost."—Rom. xv. 13.
Peace in the heaven above,
Peace like a gentle dove,
Once like a vessel tost
Upon the raging wave,
And none to save.
So was my weary soul
Troubled beyond controul,
But a mild form arose
And quelled the angry foes,
Said to the winds "be still,"
And sought my heart to fill
Whese was that bleeding brow,
Jesus I know Thee now,
Rescued and saved by Thee,
Saviour I soon shall be
RAISING THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.
"And when Jesus came into the ruler's house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a noise,
"He said unto them "Give place, for the maid is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed Him to scorn.
t..." But when the people were put forth, he went in, and took her by the hand,aDd the maid arose."—Matt. ix. 23, 24, 25.
Tread softly—whisper low,—for death is here; His icy presence chills the darkened room; That pale and lifeless form, that waiting bier, Speak of the one great bourne, the silent tomb. Gaze on these thrilling tokens of decay, And ponder—for a soul has passed away.
Closed the veined eyelids, o'er the marble cheek
Droop the long lashes dark, a silken fringe Of gleaming beauty; on the forehead meek,
Steals the death palor, but a rose-leaf tinge Still lingers on the lips, though death has set His impress there, to reign triumphant yet.
A few short months, and she was gaily springing, O'er the green hills, that, like an emerald zone, Begirt Jerusalem, her young voice ringing
As silvery music in its joyous tone;— But she is dead, her sunny smile departed, Leaving her childless parents broken hearted.
Bright was their pleasant home, while yet she strayed Like a young fawn among the trees and flowers,