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LO, GOD IS HERE!

"Gott ist gegenwärtig! lasset uns anbeten." JOHN WESLEY, founder of Methodism, was born at Epworth, June 17, 1703, and was educated at the Charter-house and at Oxford University. He went to Georgia as missionary, and on the way met some Moravians, whose acquaintance caused a change in his views. He began a series of religious efforts which effected a wonderful revival of evangelical religion in England. He translated hymns from the German, French, and Spanish. He died in London, March 2, 1791. Lo, God is here! Let us adore,

And own how dreadful is this place! Let all within us feel his power,

And silent bow before his face! Who know his power, his grace who prove, Serve him with awe, with reverence love. Lo, God is here! Him day and night The united choirs of angels sing: To him, enthroned above all height, Heaven's hosts their noblest praises bring: Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song, Who praise thee with a stammering tongue! Gladly the toys of earth we leave,

Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone: To thee our will, soul, flesh, we give;

Oh, take, oh, seal them for thine own! Thou art the God! Thou art the Lord! Be thou by all thy works adored!

HENRY F. LYTE.

Being of beings, may our praise
Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill;
Still may we stand before thy face,

Still hear and do thy sovereign will!
To thee may all our thoughts arise,
Ceaseless, accepted sacrifice!

In thee we move; all things of thee
Are full, thou source and life of all!
Thou vast, unfathomable sea!

Fall prostrate, lost in wonder, fall,
Ye sons of men; for God is man!
All may we lose, so thee we gain!
As flowers their opening leaves display
And glad drink in the solar fire,
So may we catch thy every ray,

So may thy influence us inspire,
Thou beam of the eternal beam.
Thou purging fire, thou quickening flame!

GERHARD TERSTEEGEN, 1731.
JOHN WESLEY, 1739.

Translated by

REFUGE IN THE SANCTUARY. FORTH from the dark and stormy sky, Lord, to thine altar's shade we fly; Forth from the world, its hope and fear, Saviour, we seek thy shelter here:

THE LORD'S HOUSE.

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JAMES GRAHAME was born at Glasgow, Scotland, April 22, 1765, and studied law, contrary to his wishes, to gratify his father, who was an attorney. He published the poem by which he is known, "The Sabbath," anonymously, and became very popular. From it the following lines are extracted. The Quarterly Review said that it would always hold its place among those poems that are and deserve to be in the hands of the people. Grahame died Sept 14, 1811. He had studied for the ministry, and for two years before his death was an ordained minister.

BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man's day.

On other days the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
Both seat and board, screened from the win-
ter's cold

And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree;

But on this day, embosomed in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God, - not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man's day:
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the
bough,

As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope) To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn the knell from yonder ancient pile, Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe : Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved

ground;

The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who

breathes

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With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased;

These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach

The house of God, these, spite of all their ills,

A glow of gladness feel: with silent praise
They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Opens the book. and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full:

The people rising sing, "With harp. with harp,
And voice of psalms "; harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long-drawn
aisles,

At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a softened stop controls;
In softer harmony the people join,
While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets
The hallelujahs of the choir. Sublime
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close.
Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is
cheered;

He smiles on death; but ah! a wish will rise,

"Would I were now beneath that echoing

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THE LORD'S HOUSE.

The gates, adorned with pearls most bright,
The way to hidden glory show;
And thither by the blessed might
Of faith in Jesus' merits go,

All those who are on earth distrest
Because they have Christ's name profest.

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And to his only Son most true,
With thee, O mighty Holy Ghost!
To whom praise, power, and blessing be,
Through the ages of eternity.

"Alto ex Olympi vertice."

From highest heaven, the Father's Son,
Descending like that mystic stone
Cut from a mountain without hands,
Came down below, and filled all lands;
Uniting. midway in the sky,

His house on earth and house on high.

That house on high, — it ever rings
With praises of the King of kings;
Forever there, on harps divine,
They hymn the eternal One and Trine;
We, here below, the strain prolong,
And faintly echo Sion's song.

O Lord of lords invisible !
With thy pure light this temple fill:
Hither, oft as invoked, descend;
Here to thy people's prayer attend;
Here, through all hearts, for evermore,
Thy Spirit's quickening graces pour.
Here may the faithful, day by day,
In kneeling adoration pray;
And here receive from thy dear love
The blessings of that home above;
Till, loosened from this mortal chain,
Its everlasting joys they gain.

To God the Father glory due
Be paid by all the heavenly host;
And to his only Son most true;
With thee, O mighty Holy Ghost!
To whom praise, power, and blessing be,
Through the ages of eternity.

Translated from an unknown Latin author
by EDWARD Caswali.

THE HOUSE OF GOD.

LORD of the worlds above,
How pleasant and how fair
The dwellings of thy love,
Thine earthly temples, are!
To thine abode
My heart aspires,
With warm desires
To see my God.

The sparrow for her young
With pleasure seeks a nest,
And wandering swallows long
To find their wonted rest!

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