Part 1

Hymns and Poems.

_By A. L. O. E._,

_Author of “The Triumph over Midian,” “Rescued from Egypt,” “The Shepherd of Bethlehem,” &c., &c._

LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW; EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1868.

PREFACE

If there be any distinctive peculiarity in this little volume, it is one that would naturally expose it to literary censure; the verses are very unequal, some of the hymns are avowedly written for the very poor. To admit rhymes for ragged children, needlewomen, and paupers into a book of sacred song, may—in the opinion of some critics—deprive it of all claim to the name of poetry. Yet I venture to hope that those who love to labour in God’s vineyard, will not be sorry to bear to their poorer brethren verses intended to meet their peculiar trials, and cheer them under their peculiar sorrows; while the subjects of many of the hymns are such as are of equal interest to the prince as to the peasant. Humbly I commend my little work to Him whose blessing can alone make it useful in strengthening the tempted, in cheering the sad, or in lifting up the hearts of the happy in joyful adoration and praise.

A. L. O. E.

CONTENTS

Page

HYMNS. The Willing Sacrifice, 11 The Resurrection, 13 Hymn for the Communion, 15 The Beacon, 16 The Blossoming Rod, 18 Hymn for the Penitent Convict, 21 Hymn for the Blind, 23 The House not made with Hands, 25 Sexton’s Hymn, 27 The Second Advent, 29 Hopes that Abide, 31 Soldier’s Hymn, 32 Hymn for Night, 34 Song of Joy, 35 The Retrospect, 37 The Supplicant, 39 Weaver’s Hymn, 41 Emigrant’s Hymn, 43 Fishermen’s Hymn, 45 Teacher’s Hymn, 47 Workman’s Hymn, 49 Sempstress’s Hymn, 51 Ragged Boy’s Hymn, 53 Ragged Girl’s Hymn, 55 Policeman’s Hymn, 57 Pauper’s Hymn, 59 Postman’s Hymn, 61 Servant’s Hymn, 63 Miner’s Hymn, 65 Gardener’s Hymn, 67 Labourer’s Hymn, 69 Wife’s Hymn, 71 Hymn of Industry, 73 Social Hymn, 75 National Hymn, 77 Soldier’s Hymn, 79 The Wise Men from the East, 81 Song of Hope, 85 The Fearful Heart, 88 Conviction of Sin, 90 The Sacred Guest, 92 The Mourner, 95 The Christian Bond, 97 The Cure at Gethsemane, 100 Hymn for the Communion, 102 Hymn for the Dying, 104 Death is not Dreadful, 106 Never Forsaken, 109 Thy Father’s Friend, 111 Fear of God and Fear of Man, 113 The Sinners’ Portion, 115 Death-Bed Hymn, 117 Save One! 119 New Year’s Hymn, 121

POEMS. The Indian Maid, 125 Blanche, 136 Pride, 149 A Dream of the Second Advent, 153

HYMNS.

I. THE WILLING SACRIFICE.

The precious blood of Christ my Lord, The Saviour all-divine, Was shed to cleanse men’s souls from guilt; That blood has flowed for mine! But what return can sinners make For love so great, so free? All is too little, oh! my God, To sacrifice to Thee.

If all that I possessed on earth, Before thy feet were laid, Light as the dust the gift would prove In heaven’s balance weighed. The costly treasures of the skies Thou didst resign for me; All is too little, oh! my God, To sacrifice to Thee.

But Thou wilt not disdain a heart That would Thy word obey, That loves to own the mighty debt It never hopes to pay. For were each hair upon my head A separate life to be,[1] All were too little, oh! my God, To sacrifice to Thee.

II. THE RESURRECTION.

The Summer blossoms fast decay Beneath the Autumn’s chilling breath, And man is passing thus away, Touched by the silent hand of Death. Still fading—falling—day by day The withered petals strew the plain, They never more shall deck the spray— But man shall rise again!

Behold the bare and leafless tree Blushes in spring to beauty bright; Where the dark root was buried—see The eager floweret springs to light! The sun his gentle influence shed To break cold winter’s icy chain— So God shall wake us from the dead, We all shall rise again!

As beauteous day succeeds to night, So glory dawns upon the grave— Praise to the Sun of life and light, Who lived to bless, and died to save! We calmly gaze on life’s dark close, The tomb shall not our forms retain— E’en as our God and Saviour rose His own shall rise again!

III. HYMN FOR THE COMMUNION.

I do not dare, O holy Lord, Approach Thy sacred shrine Trusting in mine own righteousness, For nought but sins are mine, But in the merits of Thy Son, The Saviour all-divine.

Unworthy as I own I am Christ’s feast of love to share, In His name hear my humble cry, For His sake grant my prayer, And let Thy mercy cleanse my soul, And shed Thy Spirit there!

Oh, make me one with my dear Lord In His appointed rite, A branch of the Eternal Vine Not fruitless in His sight; His own on earth, His own in heaven Through ages infinite!

IV. THE BEACON.

When shades of night around him close, The lighthouse guard has charge to keep, And trim the beacon-fire, which glows Like a red star above the deep. Still calm and bright Must shine that light That guides the seaman on his way, Till morning gleam And lighthouse beam Fade in the rosy blush of day.

Like charge is to the Christian given In grief or joy, in storm or strife, To glorify the God of heaven Both by his lips and by his life. Still pure and bright Must shine his light, And shed around a holy ray, A flame of love Lit from above, And shining on to perfect day.

Pride, discontent, mistrustful fear, Too oft, alas! the beacon hide; The sinner must be humbled here That Jesus may be glorified. So pure and bright Shall shine his light, To other hearts a beam convey, A flame of love Lit from above, Still shining on to perfect day.

Lord, feed our lamps with heavenly grace, And let them to Thy glory shine, Nor let our weakness e’er disgrace The holy faith which seals us Thine! Then pure and bright Shall shine our light, Our heavenly Father’s grace display, A flame of love Lit from above, Still shining on to perfect day!

V. THE BLOSSOMING ROD.

An angel of comfort from heaven sped— All nature brightened as he drew near Where a poor man toiled in his lowly shed And thanked the Lord for his scanty bread; The angel breathed in the Christian’s ear, “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

He spread his pinions, then paused again Where prayer from a sick man’s couch was heard; In weary weakness, in restless pain, For tedious months had the sufferer lain, But his pale face beamed at the whispered word: “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

Then the angel flew where a mother prayed For a son on a course of evil bent; She wept—half trustful and half afraid, Beseeching Him who alone could aid; And to her was the message of comfort sent— “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

With cares depressed, and with trials worn, A persecuted believer knelt; With drooping heart she had meekly borne The unkind taunt and the look of scorn, Till the angel’s smile was like sunshine felt. “Thy God beholds, and will not forget; Have patience—the rod will blossom yet!”

Then the seraph hovered where death had been, In its little coffin an infant lay; The parents wept, but a calm serene Stole over their souls, as a hand unseen Gently wiped the trickling tears away. “Your God beholds, and will not forget; Your bud shall blossom in glory yet!”

Happy such to whom griefs come not in vain, Though afflictions bow, or the world contemn, Thrice blest in sorrow, thrice blest in pain, Reproach is honour, and loss is gain, For the angel of peace shall visit them— Their God beholds, and will not forget; Their rod shall blossom in glory yet!

VI. HYMN FOR THE PENITENT CONVICT.

I dare not raise my guilty eye The gaze of man to meet, A helpless sentenced wretch I lie, Lord Jesus! at Thy feet. Too justly scorned by all beside, I trembling come to Thee; If Thou for _chief of sinners_ died, Is there not hope for me?

The dying thief in torments hung While sinners scoffed around; With feeble breath and faltering tongue He mercy sought—and found. There flowed before his eyesight dim The blood which made him free; If Jesus heard and pitied him Is there not hope for me?

The weeping prodigal returned His father’s house to seek; His supplication was not spurned— Love still could welcome speak. Like him, in grief and penitence, To mercy’s door I flee, O Father, wilt thou spurn me thence; Is there not hope for me?

Yes, there is hope! while He, once crowned With thorns, now pleads in heaven, Rejoices o’er the lost one found, The wanderer forgiven; To those who mourn and turn from sin He offers mercy free; I feel another life begin— There yet is hope for me!

VII. HYMN FOR THE BLIND.

I cannot see the sunny gleam Which gladdens every eye but mine, But I can feel the warming beam, And bless the God who made it shine. O Lord, each murmuring thought control, Let no repining tear-drop fall, Pour holy light upon my soul, That I may own Thy love in all!

I cannot see the flow’rets blow, All sparkling from the summer showers, But I can breathe their sweet perfume, And bless the God who made the flowers. O Lord, each murmuring thought control, Let no repining tear-drop fall, Pour holy light upon my soul, That I may own Thy love in all!

I cannot see the pages where Thy holy will is written, Lord; But I can seek Thy house of prayer, And humbly listen to Thy word, Which bears my thoughts to that bright place Where I at Thy dear feet may fall, Behold my Saviour face to face, And see and own His love in all!

VIII. THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS.

The stately mansion riseth beneath the builder’s hand, When our children sleep in dust that mansion still may stand; But a nobler and more lasting dwelling to the saints is given, In a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.

The poor in spirit and the meek, the merciful and pure, On them the Saviour blessings breathed, for ever to endure; Those persecuted for His sake, from friends or kindred driven, Share a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.

And those who deeply mourn their sins shall find there yet is room, For such the Lord endured the cross, descended to the tomb; He ready stands to welcome those whose contrite hearts are riven, To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.

What matter, then, how lowly be the roof above our head, What matter then how soon the stranger o’er our graves may tread, If we are pressing on with hearts renewed and sins forgiven, To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven!

IX. SEXTON’S HYMN.

I’ve laid the earth above the child Whose life was but a summer’s day; I knew that God, in mercy mild, Had called his happy soul away. Then therefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap.

I’ve laid the earth above the youth Whose early days to God were given, Whose end bore witness to this truth, None die too soon who live for Heaven! Then wherefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap.

I’ve laid the earth o’er reverend age, Whose hoary hairs were glory’s crown, The saint had closed his pilgrimage, And gently laid life’s burden down. Then wherefore weep O’er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the earth to reap.

And soon the earth will close o’er me, Yet mourn I not my life’s decline, Lord! pardoned—ransomed—saved by Thee, Living or dying—I am Thine! Oh! wherefore sigh For those who die In Christ? the forms that mouldering lie Shall burst the sod To meet their God. And mount with seraph wings on high!

X. THE SECOND ADVENT.

Now in the East Hope’s trembling light Proclaims a brighter dawning, Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning.

For many weary ages past Hath sin’s dark night prevailing, A gloom o’er all the nations cast, Whence rose the sound of wailing. The idol-gods have many a shrine Where, bound in chains of error, Myriads shut out from light divine Crouch down in shame and terror. But in the East Hope’s rosy light Proclaims a brighter dawning; Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning.

Pleasure has thrown her torches’ glare Upon a world benighted, And Science in the murky air Her glimmering tapers lighted; Some joys, like fireflies, played and glanced To mock our vain pursuing, And Folly’s meteors wildly danced Above the gulf of ruin! But in the East Hope’s purer light Proclaims a brighter dawning; Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning!

Like Cynthia from her silver car, The Church could darkness brighten; Each high example, like a star, Shone forth to cheer and lighten. But I shall need nor star nor moon In that clear day before me, The Sun of Righteousness shall soon Burst forth in cloudless glory! Yes, in the East Hope’s kindling light Proclaims a brighter dawning; Though woe endureth for a night, Joy cometh in the morning!

XI. HOPES THAT ABIDE.

Earth’s bright hopes must fade, Not those which grace hath given; Joys were fleeting made, But not the joys of Heaven! Stars that shine above, And flowers that cannot wither, These are types of peace and love That shall abide for ever.

Who that seeks the skies Would mourn earth’s pleasures blighted, Weep o’er broken ties Soon to be re-united? Blest e’en awhile to be In darkness and in sorrow, Assured we soon the dawn shall see Of an eternal morrow!

XII. SOLDIER’S HYMN.

There is a sword of glittering sheen,— All unite to defend the right! Its blade is bright and its edge is keen, But the wound it gives is a wound unseen,— And who would flinch in the glorious fight!

There is a foe—a ruthless foe— Such unite to oppose the right; In secret ambush he croucheth low, And the blow he strikes is a deadly blow,— But flinch not we in the glorious fight!

There is a banner floating wide,— All unite to defend the right! The blood of martyrs its folds has dyed, When the best and bravest fought side by side,— Who would not flinch in the glorious fight!

There is a Leader exalted high,— All unite to defend the right! Through Him His followers hosts defy, Through Him they learn to do and to die, And scorn to flinch in the glorious fight!

There is a palm—a victor’s palm,— All unite to defend the right! ’Twill be given in realms of peace and calm To the steadfast spirit, the stalwart arm, That never flinched in the glorious fight.

Then shall lips touched with living flame In song unite, in the world of light;— In our Leader’s strength, in our Leader’s name, We fought—we struggled—we overcame, And victors stood in the glorious fight!

XIII. HYMN FOR NIGHT.

After labour sweet is rest, Gently the wearied eyelids close; As an infant sleeps on his mother’s breast, The child of God may in peace repose. Whether we sleep, or whether we wake, We are His who gave His life for our sake.

He to whom darkness is as light, Tenderly guards his slumbering sheep; The Shepherd watches His flock by night, The feeble lambs He will safely keep. Whether we sleep, or whether we wake, We are His who gave His life for our sake.

Death’s night comes,—it may now be near,— Lord! if our faith be fixed on Thee, Oh! how calm will that rest appear, Oh! how sweet will the waking be! Whether we sleep, or whether we wake, We are His who gave His life for our sake.

XIV. SONG OF JOY.

The balmy Spring awakes the flowers That long had slept in Winter’s night, Her light green robe adorns the bowers, And all is beauty, all delight. With joy I view earth’s smiling frame, And bless, O Lord, and bless Thy name!

Thou hast vouchsafed me buoyant health, A cheerful, light, and bounding heart; Contentment—better far than wealth, And Hope—that rests when joys depart. What gratitude such gifts should claim,— For these, O Lord, I bless thy name!

Surrounded from my earliest days By those who loved—who love me still, My grateful heart I humbly raise To Him, by whose Almighty will To me earth’s sweetest blessings came; I praise and magnify His name!

But more than all I thank Thee, Lord, For sins through Thy dear blood forgiven, The comforts of Thy precious Word, And hopes of endless bliss in Heaven; Bought by Thy suffering and Thy shame,— For these, O Lord, I bless Thy name!

Lord! should it be Thy sovereign will To blast my earthly happiness, Yet give me grace to praise Thee still, With trembling lips Thy wisdom bless; Crushed or exalted—still the same, To bless, with fervour bless Thy name!

Should all life’s pleasures disappear, Support me with Thy heavenly love,— And when my course is ended here, Oh, raise my soul to bliss above, With saints to magnify Thy fame, And bless, for ever bless Thy name!

XV. THE RETROSPECT.

When on Zion’s hill we rest In the mansions of the blest, What a strange and fleeting dream All life’s hopes and fears will seem?

What will all our pleasures here— Titles—honours—then appear? Like a bubble on the river, Bright awhile—then lost for ever!

Things that now employ each thought, Warmly wished for, fondly sought— We may smile, and wonder much Heirs of Heaven could stoop to such!

Will the petty wrongs of earth Seem one moment’s anger worth; Or a friend’s depart—the sorrow Felt by those so soon to follow?

All that time bestowed will be Lost in bright eternity; Save the harvest Christian Love Sowed on earth—to reap above!

XVI. THE SUPPLICANT.

A helpless sinner in Thy sight, At mercy’s threshold, Lord, I wait; Inscribed in characters of light, Thy promise shines upon the gate. “Ask—ye shall receive; Seek—and ye shall find; Knock—and enter in, but leave All sins and doubts behind.”

I _ask_ Thy boundless grace to share, I _seek_ for pardon through Thy blood, I _knock_ by earnest, fervent prayer,— Lord, hear and answer me for good! “Ask—ye shall receive; Seek—and ye shall find; Knock—and enter in, but leave All sins and doubts behind.”

Yes; each mistrustful doubt of Thee, Each long-indulged, besetting sin, Repented and renounced must be By those who dare to venture in. Then asking—we receive, And seeking—we shall find, Till, entering Heaven’s gate, we leave Earth, sin, and death behind!

XVII. WEAVER’S HYMN.

How swiftly flies man’s mortal thread Within the mighty loom of Time; What brilliant hues on some are shed, While some are stained with woe or crime! But they bright webs are weaving, Who, trusting and believing, Through scenes of sorrow, scenes of joy, God’s grace are still receiving.

’Tis thus the Christian we behold In sickness and in want resigned, Because religion’s thread of gold Is in his gloomy lot entwined. A bright web he is weaving When, trusting and believing, He from a loving Father’s hand Each trial is receiving.

Death soon will break our thread in twain, Time’s busy loom itself must rest; Nought but a winding-sheet remain Of all that mortals here possest. Then every trial leaving, No more o’er sorrows grieving, How blest the Christian, from his Lord The crown of life receiving!

XVIII. EMIGRANT’S HYMN.

Father of Heaven, Thy guidance we implore Where’er Thy providence our steps may send; With drooping hearts we leave our native shore, Do Thou be with us always—to the end!

Protect and guard us on the lonely sea, Though angry storms our flutt’ring canvas rend, The anchor of our hope is fixed on Thee, Do Thou be with us always—to the end!