CHURCH.
Whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in Heaven.—Matthew, xvi. 19.
Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.—Matthew, xxviii. 20.
So were the churches established in the faith, and increased in number daily.—Acts, xvi. 5.
And God hath set some in the church, first, apostles, secondarily, prophets, thirdly, teachers.—I. Corinthians, xii. 28.
And hath put all things under his feet, and gave him to be the head over all things to the church,
Which is his body, the fulness of him that filleth all in all.—Ephesians, i. 22, 23.
Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it.—Ephesians, v. 25.
That thou mayest know how thou oughtest to behave thyself in the house of God, which is the church of the living God, the pillar and ground of the truth.—I. Timothy, iii. 15.
Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is.—Hebrews, x. 25.
The solemn scene
The sun, through storied panes, surveys with awe,
And bashfully withholds each bolder beam.
Smart.
Think, when the bells do chime,
’Tis angels’ music; therefore come not late.
God then deals blessings: if a king did so,
Who would not haste, nay give, to see the show?
When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.
God is more there than thou: for thou art there
Only by His permission. Then beware;
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne’er spoil’d silk stocking. Quit thy state.
All equal are within the church’s gate.
Resort to sermons, but to prayers most:
Praying’s the end of preaching. O be drest;
Stay not for the other pin: why thou hast lost
A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest
Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee,
Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.
In time of service seal up both thine eyes,
And send them to thy heart; that spying sin,
They may weep out the stains by them did rise:
Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in.
Who marks in church-time others’ symmetry,
Makes all their beauty his deformity.
Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part;
Bring not thy plots, thy plough, thy pleasure thither.
Christ purged His temple—so must thou thy heart.
All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together
To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well,
For churches either are our heaven or hell.
George Herbert.
Dear is the ancient village church, which rears
By the lone yew, or lime, or elm-girt mound,
Its modest fabric: clear, and pleasant sound
Of bells, the grey embattled tower that wears
Of changeful hue the marks of bye-gone years,
Buttress, and porch, and arch with mazy round
Of curious feet or shapes fantastic crown’d;
Tall pinnacles and mingled window tiers,
Norman, or misnamed Gothic. Fairer spot
Thou givest not, England, to the tasteful eye,
Nor to the heart more soothing. Blest their lot!
Know they their bliss, who own their dwelling nigh
Such resting-place; there by the world forgot,
In life to worship, and when dead to lie!
Bishop Mant.
Some there are
Who hold it meet to linger now at home,
And some o’er fields and the wide hills to roam,
And worship in the temple of the air!
For me, not heedless of the lone address,
Nor slack to meet my Maker on the height,
By wood, or living stream; yet not the less
Seek I His presence in each social rite
Of His own temple: that He deigns to bless,
There still He dwells, and that is His delight.
Bishop Mant.
I love to hear the sound of holy bell,
And peaceful men, their praises lift to Heaven.
Joanna Baillie.
Clad in a robe of pure and spotless white,
The youthful bride, with timid steps, comes forth
To greet the hand to which she plights her troth,
Her soft eyes radiant with a strange delight.
The snowy veil which circles her around,
Shades the sweet face from every gazer’s eye,
And thus enwrapt, she passes calmly by—
Nor casts a look, but on the unconscious ground.
So should the Church, the bride elect of Heaven,—
Remembering whom she goeth forth to meet,
And with a truth that cannot brook deceit,
Holding the faith which unto her is given—
Pass through this world, which claims her for a while,
Nor cast about her longing look nor smile.
Mrs. Neal.
Thy best type, Desire
Of the sad heart,—the Heaven-ascending spire!
Sir E. B. Lytton.
To Thee the churches here rejoice,
The solemn organs aid the voice;
To sacred roofs the sound we raise,
The sacred roofs re-sound Thy praise;
And while our notes in one agree,
Oh! bless the church that sings to Thee!
Parnell.
The Church of Christ, the school of grace,
The Spirit teaching by the Word;
In these our Saviour’s steps we trace,
By this His living voice is heard.
J. Montgomery.
So shall her holy bounds increase,
With walls of praise and gates of peace;
So shall the Vine which martyr tears
And blood sustained, in other years,
With fresher life be clothed upon;
And to the world in beauty show
Like the rose-plant of Jericho,
And glorious as Lebanon.
J. G. Whittier.
O, prayer is good when many pour
Their voices in one solemn tone;
Conning their sacred lessons o’er,
Or yielding thanks for mercies shown.
’Tis good to see the quiet train
Forget their worldly joy and care,
While loud response, and choral strain,
Re-echo in the House of Prayer.
Eliza Cook.
There is a Presence spiritually vast
Around Thy Church, arisen Saviour! cast;
A holy effluence, an unspoken awe,
A sanctity which carnal eye ne’er saw,—
A pure, impalpable, almighty sense
Of peace, by reconciled Omnipotence,—
That hallows, haunts, and makes a Christian mind
Rich in all grace, celestially refined:
Mere Nature’s worshippers can never feel
The fulness of that high seraphic zeal
Which veileth all things with religious light,
And works unwearied in Jehovah’s sight;
Thought, dream, and action, ev’ry pulse of soul
The awe of Christ will solemnly control:
Girt by the Spirit, wheresoe’er they rove,
True faith is feeding on His breath of love.
R. Montgomery.
How sweetly wide this Sabbath morn
The chime of village bells is sent
O’er the hamlets, o’er the fields,
With Sabbath sunshine blent.
The noble hears and quits his hall—
The peasant quits his cottage-home;
All cheerfully, all pleasantly,
To church the people come.
They come from far-off heathy moors,
From lonely farms, from quiet dells,
Led strongly, irresistibly,
By the sweet chime of Sabbath bells.
Across the fields, across the green,
From shades emerge they to the light;
And seen in groups, or singly seen,
It is a charming sight.
Richard Howitt.