The book of sacred song . race,We deeply need a hiding-place. Yet courage!—days and years will glide,And we shall lay these clods aside;Shall be baptized in Jordans flood,And washM in Jesus cleansing blood. Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,We through the Lamb shall be decreed ;Shall meet the Father face to face,And need no more a hiding-place, Kirke White. PERIOD OF GEORGE LI. I41 HERE HAVE WE NO CONTINUING CITY/ H) H ! when did wisdom covet length of days,Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, orpraise ?No :—wisdom views with an indifferent eyeAll finite joys, all blessings born to
The book of sacred song . race,We deeply need a hiding-place. Yet courage!—days and years will glide,And we shall lay these clods aside;Shall be baptized in Jordans flood,And washM in Jesus cleansing blood. Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,We through the Lamb shall be decreed ;Shall meet the Father face to face,And need no more a hiding-place, Kirke White. PERIOD OF GEORGE LI. I41 HERE HAVE WE NO CONTINUING CITY/ H) H ! when did wisdom covet length of days,Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, orpraise ?No :—wisdom views with an indifferent eyeAll finite joys, all blessings born to soul on earth is an immortal guest,CompelPd to starve at an unreal feast:A spark that upward tends by natures force;A stream diverted from its parent source;A drop dissevered from the boundless sea;A moment^ parted from eternity !A pilgrim,, panting for a rest to come ;An exile, anxious for his native home. Kirke White. YET IN MY FLESH SHALL I SEE GOD. HROUGH sorrows night and dangerspath,Amidst the deepening gloom,. H2 THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. We, soldiers of an injured King,Are marching to the tomb. There, when the turmoil is no more, And all our powers decay,Our cold remains in solitude Shall sleep the years away. Our labours done, securely laid In this our last retreat,Unheeded, oer our silent dust The storms of life shall beat. Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane. The vital spark shall lie;For oer lifes wreck that spark shall rise To see its kindred sky. These ashes, too, this little dust, Our Fathers care shall keep,Till the last angel rise, and break The long and dreary sleep. Kirke White. PERIOD OF GEORGE III. Hi LESS THAN THE LEAST OF ALL SAINTS/ SAINT! Oh would that I could claimThe privileged, the honoured name,! And confidently take my stand, Though lowest, in the saintly band ! Would, though it were in scorn applied,That term the test of truth could bide !Like kingly salutations givenIn mockery to the King of Heaven. A Saint! And what imports the nameThus bandie
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