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Thy Saviour weeps! Hear it, poor blinded heart;
Where angels weep, wilt thou foolhardy jest thee? In vain array and careless mirth take part,
Still hasting on, hasting till Death arrest thee?
Thy Saviour weeps!
Lift up thine eyes from out thy tearful dwelling;
Sees all thy grief, and all thy tears is telling.
Thy Saviour, weeps !
So truly man the Son of Man befriended,
And bitter bread of tears, He condescended.
Thy Saviour weeps !
Get it, o man, among thy kingly treasure;
Are pearls and rubies for the poor soul's pleasure ;
The Mount of Prayer.
Luke vi. 12.
Earthly need and sinner's smart
HERE was great sorrow in John Hartley's home, for
illness had crept in, no one knew how, and laid its hand on the eldest girl. Little Mary, they
always called her, though she was twelve years old. Perhaps it was because her brothers were all older, and growing up to be tall men; or perhaps because little is such an endearing word, when spoken of those we love, and Mary was dear to every one in the home. You would not wonder at that if you could have seen how loving she was to everybody, and how useful; how she waited on her father, and helped her mother, and sang to her brothers the sweet sacred songs she learned at the Sunday-school. Dear little Mary!
But she was ill now. Her father missed the trim little figure that used to spring across the doorstep at night to meet him, with a bright word of welcome. Her mother went about the house with feet that seemed turned to lead, doing her own work and Mary's too, and grudging every moment that was spent out of the little room where her child lay.
Mary was very patient. She had learned about Jesus at the Sunday-school, and her young heart had welcomed the teaching, and opened its door to let the Saviour in; and it was because His love had been shed abroad there, that her little light had shone so brightly in the home.
Day after day passed by in an ebb and flow of the intermittent fever that had fastened upon her ; but most surely, as the days went on, all save herself saw that she grew weaker and weaker, and at length the doctor confirmed the mother's anxious fears, and told her that nothing could save her child, and that the end was near.
Poor mother! what could she have done in that moment of untold anguish, if she, too, had not known and believed the love God had to her? It needed all His strength and succour to enable her to go back to the sick room prepared
to tell her child the truth. Mary paved the way by asking, in startled tones, as she entered,
“Mother, what can be the matter with me? I never felt like this before. Oh, mother, what is it?"
The look of speechless sorrow on her mother's face was at first her only answer, and then Margaret braced herself, though amidst broken-hearted sobs, to tell her.
“My darling, I am afraid you are going to die.”
“ To die, mother! Am I going to die? I never thought of that.” And for a moment the little girl, feeling the cold water of Jordan lapping round her feet, shrank back appalled. “Do you think I am quite ready, mother?" she gasped. “What must I do? Tell me what to say, mother."
The poor mother's heart was so full of feeling that her mind was empty of thought, and for an instant all was a terrible blank around her. And still this pitiful little face was turned towards her, and the eyes, dim and glassy now, pleaded for help.
“My darling, this is what you must say !” she cried ; "yes, this is it,
" Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
Oh, receive my soul at last !'". Mary listened with hushed breathing, following with her lips each word of the hymn, and, as her mother ended, a smile of rapture brightened over her face, “ Oh, mother; that's it, it's all Jesus! I needn't trouble ; I've given myself away to Him, and He will be sure to look after me. I'm quite happy now. Don't cry so, dear mother; He'll comfort you, too.” And with a joyful recognition of her longloved Saviour, the dying child put her hand on His rod and staff, and went by His side through the “valley;" and her
moti:er's grief was stilled, and even turned into grateful thanks unto Him who had given her little Mary the victory through her Lord Jesus Christ.
This is the only means of victory, dear reader. It is a wise and wholesome thing sometimes to anticipate our final encounter with “ the last enemy," to picture his approach, and the terror with which he will assuredly be armed to us, unless, like Mary, we have "given ourselves away to Jesus.” Let me entreat you to do this now. To the youngest reader of this true story, as well as to the aged, who can only see its words by the aid of spectacles, He is offering safety, pardon, and friendship. A “great salvation” truly, even in time of liealth, and when “the evil days” that darken so many lives have not as yet come near ours.
But how great to have our heads covered in the day of battle with outward and spiritual foes! Greatest of all, to meet death, that “strong man armed,” and “fear no evil,” because One “stronger than he” is with us, pledged to give us the victory. How is it that any one can turn aside from such a salvation as this, and prefer the risk and suspense and exposure of a life and a death without Jesus ?
M. C. F.
" pe are not your own."
DOUGHT with a price, I'm not my own;
D But all I have, and all I am,