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GETHSEMANE.

Who is the King of Glory, who?—

The Lord that all our foes o'ercame :
The world, sin, death, and hell o'erthrew,
And Jesus is the Conqueror's name.

Lo! his triumphal chariot waits,
And angels chant the solemn lay;
"Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates!
Ye everlasting doors, give way!"

Who is the King of Glory, who?—
The Lord of boundless power possessed;

The King of saints and angels too;

God over all, forever blessed!

CHARLES WESLEY.

Gethsemane.

READ how, in Gethsemane,

The suffering Saviour bowed the knee:
My tears fell fast upon the book,-
It was so grandly sad to read

Of Him, in darkness, grief, and need-
It seemed to me that I could look

Through all thy shades, Gethsemane,
And see the One who died for me.

I too had my Gethsemane :

The hour of darkness came to me,
And none was by to watch or aid:

In grief and fear I drank, alas,
The bitter cup that would not pass-
Then like my Lord I knelt and prayed,
And in my own Gethsemane

I found the One who died for me.

WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

335

GIVE

Pilgrimage.

IVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staffe of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joye—immortal diet—
My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
—And thus I take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,
While my soul, like peaceful palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Other balm will not be given.

Over the silver mountains,

Where spring the nectar fountains,

There will I kiss

The bowle of blisse,

And drink mine everlasting fill

Upon every milken-hill:

My soul will be a-dry before;

But after that will thirst no more.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Litany.

AVIOUR, when in dust to Thee

SA

Low we bow the adoring knee;
When, repentant, to the skies
Scarce we lift our weeping eyes-
O, by all Thy pains and woe
Suffered once for man below,
Bending from Thy throne on high,
Hear our solemn Litany!

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The Stranger.

POOR wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,

Who sued so humbly for relief

That I could never answer “Nay."
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love,-I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
Not a word he spake.

He entered.

Just perishing for want of bread,

I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate ;-but gave me part again.
Mine was an angel's portion then ;
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mocked his thirst;

He heard it, saw it hurrying on.

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped, and returned it running o'er;
I drank and never thirsted more.

'T was night; the floods were out,-it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid him welcome to my roof;

I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest-
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden's garden while I dreamed.

THE STRANGER.

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side;

I roused his pulse, brought back his breath—
Revived his spirit, and supplied

Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed.
I had, myself, a wound concealed-
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honored him midst shame and scorn.

My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He asked if I for him would die;

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,

But the free spirit cried, "I will.”

Then in a moment, to my view,
The stranger darted from disguise;

The tokens in his hands I knew

My Saviour stood before mine eyes.
He spake; and my poor name he named-
"Of Me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not! thou didst them unto me."

JAMES MONTGOMERY

339

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