THE DEAD CHRIST.
The last expiring groan was hushed; the beaming eye was closed—it wept no longer over the sins of a perverse race. Those gentle and lovely features were robed with the pallid hue of death, and the heart that melted at the sorrows of mankind beat no longer. The grave, the cold grave, rejoicingly closed its dreary portals upon his sacred form; and he, the lowly and despised Nazarene, who found no resting- place for his weary head, slept quietly in a borrowed sepulchre.
THE COMPLAINT.
Ah! many springs have come and gone,
And called me forth in vain;
Now winter folds the winding-sheet
Round nature's breast again.
Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers,
Young feet have trod the grass,
But I have watched in solitude
The mournful shadows pass.
Young hands have gathered brighter flowers
From wisdom's pleasant tree—
But darker still the shadows fall,
There are no flowers for me!
No flowers! where shadows deepest lie
Amid the wint'ry gloom,
Thank God, I see with kindling eye
The Rose of Sharon bloom!
It is enough—my earthly hopes
Are fading one by one;
My God and my Redeemer lives,
And may his will be done.
I know that in a better world
I shall look back and say
I never could have reached my home
By any other way.
And such a home! no frightful dreams,
No wakings to despair—
No cries of—God remove the cup,
Or give me strength to bear!