The Christian Year eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 203 pages of information about The Christian Year.

   In spirit may’st thou meet
   With faithful Abraham here,
Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet
   A nursing Father dear.

   Would’st thou a poet be? 
   And would thy dull heart fain
Borrow of Israel’s minstrelsy
   One high enraptured strain?

   Come here thy soul to tune,
   Here set thy feeble chant,
Here, if at all beneath the moon,
   Is holy David’s haunt.

   Art thou a child of tears,
   Cradled in care and woe? 
And seems it hard, thy vernal years
   Few vernal joys can show?

   And fall the sounds of mirth
   Sad on thy lonely heart,
From all the hopes and charms of earth
   Untimely called to part?

   Look here, and hold thy peace: 
   The Giver of all good
E’en from the womb takes no release
   From suffering, tears, and blood.

   If thou would’st reap in love,
   First sow in holy fear: 
So life a winter’s morn may prove
   To a bright endless year.


When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them.  Isaiah, xli. 17.

And wilt thou hear the fevered heart
   To Thee in silence cry? 
And as th’ inconstant wildfires dart
   Out of the restless eye,
Wilt thou forgive the wayward though
By kindly woes yet half untaught
A Saviours right, so dearly bought,
   That Hope should never die?

Thou wilt:  for many a languid prayer
   Has reached Thee from the wild,
Since the lorn mother, wandering there,
   Cast down her fainting child,
Then stole apart to weep and die,
Nor knew an angel form was nigh,
To show soft waters gushing by,
   And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt—­for Thou art Israel’s God,
   And Thine unwearied arm
Is ready yet with Moses’ rod,
   The hidden rill to charm
Out of the dry unfathomed deep
Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,
Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap
   Their waves in rude alarm.

These moments of wild wrath are Thine —
   Thine, too, the drearier hour
When o’er th’ horizon’s silent line
   Fond hopeless fancies cower,
And on the traveller’s listless way
Rises and sets th’ unchanging day,
No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,
   On earth no sheltering bower.

Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,
   To turn the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
   This throbbing brow to cool: 
Till loft awhile with Thee alone
The wilful heart be fain to own
That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
   Our darkness best may rule.

The scent of water far away
   Upon the breeze is flung;
The desert pelican to-day
   Securely leaves her young,
Reproving thankless man, who fears
To journey on a few lone years,
Where on the sand Thy step appears,
   Thy crown in sight is hung.

Project Gutenberg
The Christian Year from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
Follow Us on Facebook