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A CHRISTIAN WREATH,
THE INFANT JESUS.
"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon His shoulder; and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of peace.”—Isaiah ix, 6, - "And thou shalt calf His name Jesus: for He shall save His people from their sins.”—Matt. i. 21.
'Tis eve, and wearied Nature sinks to rest,
In Judah's land, beneath an olive green,
Deepens the glowing red, and shews that care,
Who is that mother mild, that infant fair,
hair? Behold thy Maker in that feeble frame ! Shrined in a human form the God-head
came : From Satan's slavish chains to set us free, To rescue man from guilt and misery. Gaze on! and know the deep, the matchless
love, That brought the Lord of glory from above. Love plumed his wings, and sped his down
ward flight From those bright scenes of joy and heavenly
light; Love moved His gracious heart to veil His
And pour His life-blood for a guilty race.
Think of the pride and scorn, the taunting
sneer, The hellish enmity, the savage leer, The bitter hatred of the zealous Jew, The wavering weakness of His chosen few; Foxes have holes, birds of the air a nest, But their Creator hath not where to rest. Cradled within a manger, left to share With the brute beasts a place of shelter
there As years advanced, so care and sorrow prest, Dimmed His meek eye, and filled His holy
breast; Despised, rejected He, and full of grief, No hand, no loving heart to give relief : Yet not His own, but other's sins He mourned, To cleanse their crimson stains His Spirit
burnedTo ease the heavy laden, and to feel Each mourner's woe, each stricken heart to heal. From every pore oozed the dark drops of
blood, In that lone garden, when the fearful flood Of all His Father's wrath o'erwhelmed His
soul, As o'er His head the raging billows roll. Sinner, come hither—know thy heavy guilt, Crushed that bowed head, that willing life
blood spilt; Forced from His quiv'ring lips the bitter cry Of utter woe, and writhing agony, (When in deep anguish hanging on the tree) “My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?” Sinner, still gaze, and cast a look of faith On that slain Lamb, (who with His dying
breath Prayed for His murderers,) lay thy load of sin Upon thy loving Saviour, and begin Meekly to follow Him, and bear the cross, Counting all else but worthless dung and dross;