Do we realize, as we ought, that Christ is 'the Saviour of the body,' as well as of the soul? Ah! to look on those we love-those dear, dear bodies, quick once more with the same souls, and see them as they are to be when death is swallowed up in victory; when the family likeness is stamped deep upon them all, and they are bright with a glory never to grow dim, and warm with a love that is to grow for ever! Dare you think long of this blessed hope ?' It is enough to make one die of rapture only to imagine it. What will the realization be ?

In all the wisdom of the 'advanced' ones of this world, what is there that, for one moment, can compare with the joy, strength aud courage inspired by this one hope of the true Christian? Were these cold negations true, cursed be the hour that brought them to light. Better the error that blesses, than the truth that works despair.

The members of a certain Bible-class have agreed that they will hold a prayer meeting at eight o'clock every Sabbath morning, each praying at home, in his or her own closet. Would not this be a good plan to be adopted by ministers and private Christians of churches everywhere? No time lost in dressing, or going out of the house, yet all at once bowing, and each are praying before the Lord at the same time. Who can tell what rich blessings might thus be brought down upon the churches and upon the world? We are, none of us, now-a-days, made of even second-hand material. Have yon thought of this? How many times, over and over and over again, has our 'dust of the earth' been used for other bodies. In this sense, also, we are not our own. The thought is by no means pleasant. And it's made use of by those who do not believe in revelation, to weaken our faith in the resurrection of the body. 'How can the dead rise up? and with what bodies would they come ?' they ask, triumphantly. But we can afford to smile at their arguments. He who spake creation out of nothing, who made of five loaves enough for thousands, will attend to that. His promise will not fail.

AN OLD MAN'S PRAYER.
An old man sat on a moss grown grave,
Where his precious dead was laid;
And by his side stood a fair hair'd child,
Under the willow's shade.

An Old Man's Prayer.

In silent prayer he clasped his hands,
While the tears rolled down his cheeks

On the new brought flowers that in clusters lay
At the aged sire's feet.

And the thought of her who lay beneath,
In the icy clasp of death,—

Her who had made his young heart glad,
And his tottering footsteps led.

And now she was gone, what a dreary void
Was felt in her absent face!

He was weary and sad in the world alone;
There was none to fill her place.

And he wept aloud, as in broken voice
He cried, oh! my Father, send

The angel of death to carry me home-
To me 'twould be but a friend.

For I'm very weary and lonely without
My loved one by my side;

Oh, take me over the stream of death-
The cold yet welcome tide.

And when he had spoken, the little one
Said, daddie, I think they will come;
The angels, I mean, to take you and me
Up to the Saviour's home.

Let us go home and watch for them,
Perhaps 'twill not be long:

Last night I seemed to see their wings
As I sang my evening song.

And then the old man answered, yes,
Kissing her childish face;

And, looking up to the tinted sky,
In the distant 'therial space.

He prayed for grace to wait the time
Even though it may seem long,
When he should sleep by the side of her
Who had loved him once so strong.

And so they wended their way slowly
Along by the quiet graves,

When young and old alike are laid
Till the resurrection day.

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At last they reached their humble cot,
Scented with many a flower;
Planted by hands now still and dead
By the side of a shady bower.

He sat him down in his old arm chair,
When the little maiden said,
Daddie, now may I read to you
Before I go to bed?

Yes, child, read me about my home,
I seem strangely near to night;
Oh, that my faith could be swallowed up
In everlasting sight!

And then the little maiden read
Of the jasper gates so fair;

Of the golden streets and crystal streams,
And white robed songsters there.

She went on till, with tears of joy,
She shut the precious book:
Daddie, she said, now shall I sing,
For the sun is setting, look!

The old man gazed on the distant west,

Bright with amber and gold;

And he thought of the city without the sun,

For the Lamb does the light unfold.

And while she sang in accents sweet,
The old man faintly smiled;

Then, putting his hand on her golden head,
Said, fare thee well, my child.

Where are you going daddie, dear?
Said the little wondering maid;
He pointed above to the tinted sky,
Then back in his chair he laid.

One short sigh and the spirit was gone,
Borne on the angels' wings-

Away to its mansion in the sky,
Above all earthly things

His prayer was heard-the Saviour came-
And took his servant home;

'Twas a weary road, but the end had come,

And he sits by the beautiful throne.

1 Did Not Stop to Think.

In a quiet grave, in yonder churchyard,
By the side of his loved ones dead

He sleeps till the trumpet sound shall wake
Him from his narrow bed.

And the fair haired child is a woman now,
And has watched and waited long;
And is waiting still for her heavenly home,
And the angels' welcome song.

She is waiting by the ebbing tide,
And watching at the strand,

Till angel wings shall bear her above,
Up to her fatherland.

EMILY MILLward.

I DID NOT STOP TO THINK.

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How many rash, foolish, and wicked things are daily done for which the only excuse given is, "I did not take time to consider—I did not stop to think." Many offer this excuse with a certain feeling of innocence-or, at least, a kind of half-way innocence-when the excuse itself contains their own condemnation. God has made us intelligent and rational beings, that we might think and consider that we might meditate upon our duty, and act wisely. If this habit of inconsideration had reference to nothing but worldly interests, it would be of less consequence. But how many souls are lost, and that for ever, by this same want of thought and consideration. In the giddy whirl of life-in the daily round of unsatisfying and short-lived pleasuresthe greatest of all subjects is continually neglected and slighted, because the sinner foolishly reasons he has "no time to think of it." He has time to think of everything else-time to consider how he shall enjoy the most pleasure in the passing hours, but no time to think of the God who made him, and of the welfare of his immortal soul. How will this excuse sound at the great day of judgment! Who that has lived for years, perhaps, amid all the privileges of this Christian land can summon courage to offer such a frivolous excuse as this, in that day? You have had time-abundant time-to think of these things. This subject ought to have the first place in your thoughts, and not be pushed aside and made to wait without while you entertain every light and transient thought that may visit you. It is your solemn duty now to take this subject into the most serious consideration, as one which God has made it your first duty to reflect upon. You will find, if you do not, that it will be a poor excuse for you a last that you do not "stop to think."

BURY THY SORROW.

bu-ry thy sorrow, The world hath its share;