Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age
Bend together earnestly o’er the Sacred Page;
One amid spring blossoms, while the falling leaves
Gather round the other sitting ’mid the sheaves;
One amid the twilight of the coming day,
While the shadows deepen round the other’s way.
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age,
Read the same sweet lessons from the Sacred Page;
Eyes that brim with laughter, eyes that dim with years,
Resting there pay tribute in a flood of tears;
Rosy lips and pallid trembling at the cry—
Mournfully repeating the Sabachthani!
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age
Draw their consolation from the Sacred Page;
One is in the valley where the grass is green,
While the other gazes on a wintry scene;
Both have lost their birth-right-both have felt their
loss,
And they both regain it through the blessed Cross!
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age,
Find their way to Heaven in the Sacred Page;
Like the little children waiting to be blessed,
One goes forth rejoicing to the Saviour’s breast,
While the other clingeth to his mighty arm,
’Mid the swelling Jordan feeling no alarm.
Golden-headed youth and silver-headed age,
Come, and seek for treasures in the Sacred Page;
To the one how tender is the Saviour’s call;
Yet the invitation He extends to all;
Earthly fountains fail you—hasten to assuage
Every grief of childhood—every pang of
age!
Oh, what a book is the Bible! There is enough
in one verse to condemn the whole world, and enough
in another to redeem it.
No man in a dark night can behold himself in a mirror
until a lamp is lighted,—and not even then
distinctly and perfectly until the dawn of day:
so no man can see himself in God’s mirror until
the beams of the divine lamp [the Holy Spirit] illume
his soul,—nor even then can he see perfectly
what a wretched and distorted being he is “until
the day break” and, being made like his Saviour,
he contrasts what he is with what he once was.
While on the cross the Saviour bleeds,
While friend nor foe his anguish heeds,
While many a taunt and bitter jeer
Break harshly on his holy ear,
He prays,—what can that last prayer be?
Oh, wondrous love, he prays for me!
Deep anguish fills his troubled soul,
The streams of blood in torrents roll;
And louder railings now are heard;
He breathes not one complaining word;
Yet, hark! he prays,—what can it be?
Oh, wondrous love, he prays for me!
He bows his head, Immanuel dies;
Darkness o’erspreads the azure skies,
Loud thunders shake the earth and air,
And earthquakes heave in horror there;
Angels the act with wonder see;
Oh, matchless love, he dies for me!
He leaves the dark and gloomy grave,
While angel-pinions round him wave,
And rising from the mountain’s brow,
Appears before his Father now;
He pleads,—what can those pleadings be?
Oh, deathless love, he pleads for me!
