In The Temple

IN THE TEMPLE

O'ER Judah's plains sweet Spring had
thrown
Her flowery robe of living green.
And Nature in her gala robes
Was mantled like a fairy queen.

High o'er the temple's burnished towers
The sunshine fell like molten gold,
And flamed and flashed from glittering spire,
From pinnacle and turret old.
While through the city's busy street
Echoed the tread of countless feet.

Far over Judah's hills they come,
From shepherd lad to stately priest,
To ancient Salem's gates they haste
To keep the sacred Paschal Feast.

Look, who is he, that youthful Lad, -
Standing within the temple fair ?
Why do not Israel's sages know
That he — the Paschal Lamb — is there?

Strange blindness, that they knew him not, -
Those gray haired men, those learned
seers:
Useless the Rabbi's studied lore,
The vain philosophy of years.

From out those sacred, youthful lips
Flow wondrous words of heavenly lore, —
Such words of purity and grace
As man had never heard before.

And now, a kind, obedient Son,
No thought had he of earthly fame,
But 'mong the hills of Nazareth
A humble carpenter became.

He took our fallen nature; he
Who made the hosts which roll above
Of Abraham's frail seed partook,
In godlike sympathy and love. 

Slaying of The Innocents

SLAYING OF THE INNOCENTS.

Thus one by one the days go by
Since, in the brightening orient sky,
The wise men saw the shining star
Gleam over Bethlehem's hills afar,
And since the shepherd's hearts were stirred
By sweetest song ear ever heard.

But ah ! those echoes scarce had died
O'er Judah's hills and vales so wide, —
Those hills and vales which lately flung
The echoes back from angel tongue, —
Ere, from those selfsame hills, arise
Loud wails of anguish to the skies.

O Herod! heed'st thou not the cry
Of Rachel's anguish, rising high, —
That long, loud wail of mortal pain
From tender babes thy sword hath slain?

Why dost thou raise thy puny arm
To do the Lord's Anointed harm ?
Dost thou not know th' Eternal One
Will shield his well beloved Son?

To far-off Egypt's friendly land
He journeys, led by angel hand;
There, safe from cruel rage, is borne,
While Rama's daughters weep and mourn.
O crafty Herod, vain thy might
When waged against Eternal Right.
Vain, vain shall be thy godless boasts,
Thy conflict with the Lord of Hosts. 

Birth

Birth

O'er Bethlehem's hills the stars of night
Were softly shining, clear and bright;
The flocks and herds were sleeping still,
On verdant dale and dewy hill,
And o'er earth's calm and peaceful breast
A benediction seemed to rest,

As though the whole creation knew,
And smiled a welcome warm and true
To Him, her long-expected Lord,
Foretold by Inspiration's Word, —
Foretold and sung by seer and sage,
Bright Star of Hope, from age to age.

Hark, hark! what strains of music rare,
Like faintest perfume fill the air!
And louder still, and still more loud.
Bursts from that swift descending cloud:
Such glorious notes ring o'er and o'er
As weary earth ne'er heard before;
Aloud the heavenly heralds sing.
While through the spheres the echoes ring.

''Glory to God in the highest!
Peace and good will to men!"
And the heavens caught the glad refrain,
And echoed it o'er again.
Then up from the hills of glory
There echoed the thrilling cry,
''Rejoice, O Earth, for the Christ is born!
Glory to God on high!"