FIRST
SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.
Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of
Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near
to Himself? Numbers xvi.9.
FIRST Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invokÕd in hour of need,
Thou count me for thine own,
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joyÕs in miracles of love)
Hear, from thy mercy-throne!
Upon thine altarÕs horn of gold
Help me to lay my trembling hold,
Though stainÕd with Christian gore;Ñ
The blood of souls by Thee redeemÕd,
But, while I rovÕd or idly dreamÕd,
Lost to be found no more.
For oft, when summer leaves were bright,
And every flower was bathÕd in light,
In sunshine moments past,
My wilful heart would burst away
From where the holy shadow lay,
Where Heaven my lot had cast.
I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell,
A Hermit in a silent cell,
While, gaily sweeping by,
Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain,
And marshallÕd all his galland train
In the worldÕs wondering eye.
I would have joinÕd himÑbut as oft
Thy whisperÕd warnings, kind and soft,
My better soul confessÕd.
"My servant, let the world aloneÑ
"Safe on the steps of JesusÕ throne
"Be tranquil and be blest.
"Seems it to thee a niggard hand
"That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand,
"The ark to touch and bear,
"With incense of pure heartÕs desire
"To heap the censerÕs sacred fire,
"The snow-white Ephod wear?"
Why should we crave the worldlingÕs wreath,
On whom the Saviour deignÕd to breathe,
To whom his keys were given,
Who lead the choir where angels meet,
With angelsÕ food our brethren greet,
And pour the drink of Heaven?
When sorrow all our heart would ask,
We need not shun our daily task,
And hide ourselves for calm;
The herbs we seek to heal our woe
Familiar by our pathway grow,
Our common air is balm.
Around each pure domestic shrine
Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine,
Our hearths are altars all;
The prayers of hungry souls and poor,
Like armed angels at the door,
Our unseen foes appal.
Alms all around and hymns withinÑ
What evil eye can entrance win
Where guards like these abound?
If chance some heedless heart should roam,
Sure, thought of these will lure it home
Ere lost in FollyÕs round.
O joys, that sweetest in decay,
Fall not, like witherÕd leaves, away,
But with the silent breath
Of violets drooping one by one,
Soon as their fragrant task is done,
Are wafted high in death!