his God and your God. He has taken his seat at
the right hand of the Majesty on high, and there, despairing
soul, trembling under the burden of sin, he pleads
for thee (Heb. 7: 25). He points to the
cross on Calvary, dripping with his own precious blood,
and in a voice of tender compassion exclaims:
“Father, I died for that wretched sinner; spare,
oh spare him for my sake!” He has entered into
the holy place by his own blood, having obtained eternal
redemption for thee, O daughter of Zion.
O Thou whose footsteps are unknown,
Whose path is on the sea,—
Whose footstool earth, and heaven whose throne,
Dost Thou remember me?
O Thou whom winds and waves obey,
At whose supreme command
The shining worlds pursue their way,
Or in their orbits stand,—
Thou at whose touch the hills disperse,
And burning mountains flee,
Thou Ruler of the Universe,
Dost Thou remember me?
This world though fallen still is thine,
And dearer far to-day
Than all the countless orbs that shine
But never went astray.
For here the blessed Son of God
Was born, and wept, and died;
Our valleys and our hills he trod,
And they are sanctified.
On Him my guilty soul relies,
Through him I come to thee;
Thou dost accept my sacrifice,
Thou dost remember me!
’T IS I—BE NOT AFRAID.
Dark hung the clouds o’er Galilee;
A lonely bark was on the sea,
Where wild the billows played;
Deep terror filled each trembling frame,
When suddenly the accents came,
“’T is I—be not
afraid!”
A martyr stood with tranquil air;
He saw the stake, the fetters there,
The fagots all arrayed;
But, though such darkness reigned around,
He caught the sweet, the cheering sound,
“’T is I—be not
afraid!”
A weary pilgrim roamed alone;
For him was breathed no friendly tone,
No friendly hand brought aid;
But through the gloom so dark and drear,
A gentle whisper reached his ear,
“’T is I—be not
afraid!”
A mother knelt in anguish wild
Beside a loved, a dying child,
And tears in torrents strayed;
A soothing voice breathed to her heart,
In tones that bade despair depart,
“’T is I—be not
afraid!”
Upon a bed of pain and death
A Christian faintly drew his breath,
With spirit half dismayed;
He heard a soft, a tender voice—
It caused that spirit to rejoice—
“’T is I—be not
afraid!”
A penitent with streaming eye
Raised unto heaven his doleful cry,
And fervently he prayed;
A brilliant light around him shone,
And with it came a heavenly tone,
“’T is I-be not afraid!”
And when the trump from yonder skies
Shall bid the silent dead arise;
When suns and stars shall fade;
When thunders roar, and mountains fall;
The saints shall hear above them all,
“’T is I-be not afraid!”
