"It is I, it is I, who have risen at length

In the day of my wrath, with the sword of my strength;
It is I, who have spoken, nor spoken in vain,

For I have returned from the field of the slain !".

And why, O thou Victor, and why thus imbue
Thy garments of snow with the deep crimson hue?
And why, Mighty Victor, thy raiment thus red,

As though thou hadst trodden where thousands had bled?

"I have trodden the wine-press of Edom alone;
Yet their armies are scattered-their banners are strown;
And still will I tread, o'er the hosts of their pride,
Till in crimson yet deeper my raiment is dyed.

There was not a helper in Israel that day,

No arm that could save from the hostile array,

I looked-but alas! there was no one to save,

No hand that could snatch from the grasp of the grave!

But I have arisen-arisen at length,

In the day of my wrath, with the sword of my strength-
With the seal on my arm, and the stain on my vest,
And where I have fought shall my people be blest!"

RACHEL WEEPING.

Jer. xxxi. 15, 17.

KNOX.

A VOICE comes from Ramah, a voice of despair-
For death's gloomy angel is triumphing there:
The children of beauty his arrows have smote,
And Rachel is weeping for hers that are not.
Alas! for the parent whose hope and whose trust
Are wither'd and broken, and hid in the dust-
Where the blossom of summer all lovely appears;
But the dew-drops of evening are mingled with tears.

A voice comes from Ramah, a voice of dismay-
But the words of Jehovah can soothe it away:
They tell of a region where grief is forgot,-
And Rachel is solaced for those that are not.

JEHOVAH SHAMMAH.

Ezek. xlviii. 35.

W. DIAMOND.

THOU art our Father, Lord, our Lord,
And thou wilt every want fulfil

Of promised love, and Zion-ward
Wilt lead the tribes in Judah still.

Though mute within thy walls we stand,
Nor harp, nor tabret's sound is there;

Nor bended knee, nor lifted hand,

Nor solemn vow, nor voice of prayer:-

་་

SAUL JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS, &c.

We turn to it, from those more painful Thy dwellings all lie desolate;

WHOSE is that sword-that voice and eye of Where Baal reigned as God.

No more shall her greatness be sounded in 'Tis done! Has breath'd thy trumpet blast,

'Tis past-and the storm, in the zeal of its Two thousand years have slain their pride!