80 CHRIST THE BREAD OF LIFE. "I am the living bread which came down from heaven."— JOHN vi. 51. ON Thee, on Thee, Our souls, oh, Lord, must ever feed, Thou art our bread indeed. True bread from heaven, Sent to sustain and to revive, Oh, day by day Without Thee, we should waste and sink In atrophy and slow decay, And to a shadow shrink. But living still On Thee, our substance, we are made More strong, and feel thy power our will, And cannot waste or fade. When ere we make Thee the sole motive of our deed, And when we feel Temptation into triumph turn'd, And when the sigh Exhausts us, and we kneel in prayer, Our bread is surely there? When in stern pain We linger through some fever's heat, Thus, feeding on Our Lord, our Life, how sweet to live; How sweet to know when life is gone That Death new life can give. How sweet to feel That Bread of Life will still prevail, And an eternity reveal, That cannot change or fail' That in the Heaven Of Heavens, and by the Godhead's throne, That bread will be to angels given; Their life and strength alone. Oh, LORD, that name Means a Bread Giver,-shed, oh, shed Thy love on us, on earth the same, Be Thou our DAILY BREAD. W. MARTIN. CHRIST THE LIVING WATER. COME hither, ye that thirst, Come to the waters free, With a blithesome bound and a joyful burst, Like a bird in its liberty. Drink at this holy spring, Oh, hasten in faith, make wing, make wing, "Tis a well of sweet delight. G Earth is a desert spot, Pleasure and joy soon sear; Away to the kind, cool, fountain grot, Oh, pilgrims tired and faint, Weary, and spent, and lone, Who walk through earth in a sad complaint, Here turn as you journey on. And you that droop and sink, Parch'd with the world's fierce glare, Come hither in holy delight and drink, Nor wither in dark despair. This living water flows Not heedlessly nor vain ; Drink, it a fountain of life bestows, Ye never can thirst again. Nature, though parch'd and wild, Sterile, and drear, and rude, Refresh'd by this spring hath sweetly smiled, Throughout its solitude. Man's heart, that barren place, Shall blossom like the rose, Grow fertile in love, and abound in grace, Shall blossom on in praise, Give incense forth in prayer, Ten thousand things of delight shall raise, All beautiful and fair. Oh, yes, that darksome blot Of sorrow, sin, and pain, Shall spring once more as an Eden spot, And every plant shall show Clusters of goodly fruit, While all who gaze, in delight may know What fruit each plant may bring Is his, and only his; For He the lovely and constant spring Of living water is. W. MARTIN. CHRIST THE PHYSICIAN. HEALER of hearts, Solace of bruised spirits, Comforter, Whene'er the soul Would come in all the burden of its sighs, To be made whole. Thou walkest still, As once in old Judea, with thine hand Thy touch so pure, Thy love so answering each repentant groan, Stricken and stung, Smote with a death-plague, writhing in distress, Cast down in pain, And dying daily, yet on thee we gaze, That scorpion, Fiery and full of poison, whose rank breath The leprosy Of the sin-bloated heart, whose plague-spot grows Within the breast Of tyrant man, ten thousand tempests wage In the alarm Thou com'st in love, and "Peace, be still!" is heard; The whirlwind is obedient to thy word, And all is calm. The dark and blind, Groping about in deadly sin's worst blight, Then drop away The scales of error from the soul, the links For thou art then The day-spring from on high, in glory rife, |