Poems of the Heart and Home

by Mrs. J. C. Yule

"Mamma! mamma!"—more wildly,
The little suff'rer cried—
Forgetting, in her anguish,
How her stricken mother died—
"Oh, take me to your bosom,
And warm me on your breast,
Then lay me down and kiss me,
In my little bed to rest!"

Poor child!—the sleep that gathers
Thy stiffened eyelids o'er,
Will know no weary waking
To a life of anguish more.
Sleep on!—the snows may gather
O'er thy cold and pulseless form—
Thou art resting, calmly resting,
In the wild, dark, midnight storm

THE NAMES OF JESUS

[Footnote: This poem is designed to form a part of a volume of strictly religious poetry, which the Author has in course of preparation; and is inserted here in deference to the expressed wish of a large number of friends. Its appearance here will not, however, prevent its appearing in its appropriate connection.]

I SING the NAMES of JESUS!—matchless names!
Highest and holiest Earth or Heaven claims!
By which alone we may approach to Him
Before whose faintest ray the sun grows dim,
And all the brightest glory of the skies
Like twilight's feeble glimmer fades and dies.

MESSIAH, CHRIST!—God's high, Anointed One!
The Eternal Father's well-beloved Son!
On whom the mystic oil of Heaven was shed,
What time, descending on His sacred head,
The Consecrating Spirit from above
Set Him apart to holiest deeds of love;
Anointed Prophet, from that favored hour
To teach His Father's will, to wield His power,—
Anointed Priest, for His own people's sake,
Himself a sacrifice for sin to make,—
Anointed King, unrivalled and alone
To reign on universal Empire's throne,—
To whose high majesty and regal worth
All crowns shall bend in Heaven and in Earth,—
All Powers to Him their cheerful tribute bring,
And all above, below, confess Him King.

OUR PASSOVER! 'Twas night on Egypt's coast,
And all were hushed to rest save Israel's host;—
They, silent, wakeful, harnessed as for flight,
Each in his own hushed dwelling watched that night
Through the slow, fateful hours of deepening gloom,
The coming of God's Messenger of doom,
Whose piercing eye, through the deep, awful shade
By Judgment's stern uplifted pinions made,
The blood-mark on each dwelling should descry
Of the slain lamb, and, seeing, pass it by.

Thus, thus, O Soul! in that more awful hour
When the last Judgment's darker shadows lower,
And, swift and stern, God's messengers go forth
To reap the harvest of this fated Earth,—
If then, on thee is found no crimson stain
Of God's own Lamb on bloody Calvary slain,—
If thou art resting not beneath the blood
Of that one sacrifice ordained of God,
Where wilt thou fly?—where hide thyself away
From the dread reck'ning of the Judgment day?—
If resting 'neath the blood for sinners spilt,
Look up!—the judge Himself has borne thy guilt'
Justice and Judgement claim thy life in vain,
Since Christ, thy Passover, Himself is slain!

IMMANUEL!—God with us. With us, O Soul!
Of this brief utt'rance canst thou grasp the whole?—
Nay, comprehend one attribute of God,
The Maker, Sovereign, Him who at a nod
Can hurl all worlds to wreck, and with a breath
Can wake a Universe from night and death,
And clothe in Beauty's robes of richest bloom
Ten thousand worlds snatched from chaotic gloom?

If not, couldst grasp the thought that such as He,
Clothed in frail, human flesh, a man should be?
Of us and with us, veiled his dazzling ray
Of awful Godhead, and at home in clay,
A living, dying man? Heaven, Earth, and Hell
The mystery fail to solve, Immanuel!—
And yet, Faith lays her hand in thine,
And whispers low,—"Immanuel is mine!"