. Our Sunday book of reading and pictures . d. No more a charnel-house, to fence The relics of lost innocence, A vault of ruin and decay ; Th imprisoning stone is rolld away: Tis now a cell where angels use To come and go with heavenly news. And in the ears of mourners say, Come, see the place where Jesus lay : Tis now a fane, where Love can findChrist everywhere embalmd and shrind ;Aye gathering up memorials sweet,Whereer she sets her duteous feet. Oh ! joy to Alary first allowd,When rousd from weeping oer His His own calm, soul-soothing tone,Breathing her name, as still His own ! J
. Our Sunday book of reading and pictures . d. No more a charnel-house, to fence The relics of lost innocence, A vault of ruin and decay ; Th imprisoning stone is rolld away: Tis now a cell where angels use To come and go with heavenly news. And in the ears of mourners say, Come, see the place where Jesus lay : Tis now a fane, where Love can findChrist everywhere embalmd and shrind ;Aye gathering up memorials sweet,Whereer she sets her duteous feet. Oh ! joy to Alary first allowd,When rousd from weeping oer His His own calm, soul-soothing tone,Breathing her name, as still His own ! Joy to the faithful Three their glad errand they pursued !Happy, who so Christs word He may meet them on their way! So is it still: to holy tears. In lonely hours, Christ risen appears ; In social hours, who Christ would see Must turn all tasks to Charity. KKBLE. [ 128 1 (SJoiL aaiL (KeaN^ea, The silver cord in twain is snapped, The golden bowl is broken,The mortal mould in darkness wrapped. The words funereal spoken ;. The tomb is built, or the rock is cleft,Or delved is the grassy clod And what for mourning man is left ?O what is left—but God ! O THOU WHO DRYST THE MOURNERS TEAR. 129 The tears are shed that mourned the dead, The flo\\ers they wore are faded;The twihght dun hath veiled the sun, And hopes sweet dreamings shaded :And the thoughts of joy that were planted deep From our heart of hearts are riven ;And what is left us when we weep ? O what is left—but Heaven ! LOWRING. © iffiou cnfio ^xijt -ffte Mourner^x^ Hear. Air—Haydn. He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.—Psalm cxlvii. THOU who dryst the mourners tear, How dark this world would , when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee !The friends who in our sunshine live. When winter comes, are flown;And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throwTheir fragranc
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