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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 142 pages of information about The Christian Year.

Ah! little dream our listless eyes
What glorious presence they despise,
   While, in our noon of life,
To power or fame we rudely press. —
Christ is at hand, to scorn or bless,
   Christ suffers in our strife.

And though heaven’s gate long since have closed,
And our dear Lord in bliss reposed,
   High above mortal ken,
To every ear in every land
(Thought meek ears only understand)
   He speaks as he did then.

“Ah! wherefore persecute ye Me? 
’Tis hard, ye so in love should be
   With your own endless woe. 
Know, though at God’s right hand I live,
I feel each wound ye reckless give
   To the least saint below.

“I in your care My brethren left,
Not willing ye should be bereft
   Of waiting on your Lord. 
The meanest offering ye can make —
A drop of water—­for love’s sake,
   In Heaven, be sure, is stored.”

O by those gentle tones and dear,
When thou hast stayed our wild career,
   Thou only hope of souls,
Ne’er let us cast one look behind,
But in the thought of Jesus find
   What every thought controls.

As to Thy last Apostle’s heart
Thy lightning glance did then impart
   Zeal’s never-dying fire,
So teach us on Thy shrine to lay
Our hearts, and let them day by day
   Intenser blaze and higher.

And as each mild and winning note
(Like pulses that round harp-strings float
   When the full strain is o’er)
Left lingering on his inward ear
Music, that taught, as death drew near,
   Love’s lesson more and more: 

So, as we walk our earthly round,
Still may the echo of that sound
   Be in our memory stored
“Christians! behold your happy state: 
Christ is in these, who round you wait;
   Make much of your dear Lord!”

THE PURIFICATION

Blessed are the pure in heart:  for they shall see God.  St.
Matthew v. 8.

   Bless’d are the pure in heart,
   For they shall see our God,
The secret of the Lord is theirs,
   Their soul is Christ’s abode.

   Might mortal thought presume
   To guess an angel’s lay,
Such are the notes that echo through
   The courts of Heaven to-day.

   Such the triumphal hymns
   On Sion’s Prince that wait,
In high procession passing on
   Towards His temple-gate.

   Give ear, ye kings—­bow down,
   Ye rulers of the earth —
This, this is He:  your Priest by grace,
   Your God and King by birth.

   No pomp of earthly guards
   Attends with sword and spear,
And all-defying, dauntless look,
   Their monarch’s way to clear;

   Yet are there more with Him
   Than all that are with you —
The armies of the highest Heaven,
   All righteous, good, and true.

   Spotless their robes and pure,
   Dipped in the sea of light,
That hides the unapproached shrine
   From men’s and angels’ sight.

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