And O, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!
Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,
And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.
But Thou hast said, "The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
*
THE BOOK OF GOD.
Thy thoughts are here, my God,
Expressed in words divine,
The utterance of heavenly lips
In every sacred line.
Across the ages they
Have reached us from afar,
Than the bright gold more golden they,
Purer than purest star.
More durable they stand
Than the eternal hills;
Far sweeter and more musical
Than music of earth's rills.
Fairer in their fair hues
Than the fresh flowers of earth,
More fragrant than the fragrant climes
Where odors have their birth.
Each word of thine a gem
From the celestial mines,
A sunbeam from that holy heaven
Where holy sunlight shines.