The Lamp of love, ed. by C.H. Bateman |
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˹éÒ 133 - WHEN I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies, I bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes.
˹éÒ 146 - tis here denied thee In solitude to pray, Should holy thoughts come o'er thee When friends are round thy way ; E'en then the silent breathing Of thy spirit raised above, Will reach His throne of glory, Who is mercy, truth, and love.
˹éÒ 137 - Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword, This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.
˹éÒ 137 - This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor?
˹éÒ 146 - Remember all who love thee, All who are loved by thee ; Pray, too, for those who hate thee, If any such there be ; Then for thyself in meekness, A blessing humbly claim, And link with each petition Thy great Redeemer's name.
˹éÒ 138 - Incarnate Son of God. O lonely grave in Moab's land ! O dark Beth-Peor's hill ! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell ; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well.
˹éÒ 136 - Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun. Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves. And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves...
˹éÒ 136 - By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave. And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.
˹éÒ 146 - Oh ! not a joy or blessing, With this can we compare,— The power that he hath given us To pour our souls in prayer. Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness, Before his footstool fall, And remember in thy gladness His grace who gave thee all.
˹éÒ 136 - Open their thousand leaves : So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down, from the mountain's crown, The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Bethpeor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie Looked on the wondrous sight...