5 The infant hymn is heard again, The infant prayer is breathed once more; Reclasping thus the broken chain, We turn to all we loved before. 448. L. M. Anonymous. A Child's Prayer. 1 Great God! and wilt Thou condescend To be my Father and my Friend? I but a child,--and Thou so high, The Lord of earth and air and sky! 2 Art Thou my Father?--Let me be A meek, obedient child to Thee; And try, in word and deed and thought, To serve and please Thee as I ought. 3 Art Thou my Father?--I'll depend Upon the care of such a friend; And only wish to do and be Whatever seemeth good to Thee. 4 Art Thou my Father?--Then, at last, When all my days on earth are past, Send down, and take me, in Thy love, To be Thy better child above. 449. C. M. Mrs. Barbauld. The Christian Pilgrim. 1 Our country is Immanuel's ground; We seek that promised soil; The songs of Zion cheer our hearts, While strangers here we toil. 2 Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow, And oft are bathed in tears; But only heaven our hopes can raise, And sin alone, our fears. 3 We tread the path our Master trod; We bear the cross he bore; And every thorn that wounds our feet His temples pierced before. 4 The flowers that spring along the road We scarcely stoop to pluck; We walk o'er beds of shining ore, Nor waste one wishful look. 5 We purge our mortal dross away, Refining as we run; And while we die to earth and sense, Our heaven is here begun. 450. C. M. Briggs' Coll. The Spiritual World. 1 There is a world we have not seen, That time can ne'er destroy, Where mortal footstep hath not been, Nor ear hath heard its joy. 2 There is a world,--and O how blest! Fairer than prophets told; And never did an angel guest One half its peace unfold. 3 And this pure world is ever bright With radiance all its own; The streams of uncreated light Flow round it from the throne. 4 Look not abroad with roving mind To seek that fair abode; It comes, where'er the lowly find The perfect peace of God. 451. C. M. Croswell. Hymn for Christmas. 1 Now gird your patient loins again, Your wasting torches trim! The chief of all the sons of men, Shall we not welcome him? Fill all his courts with sacred songs, And from the temple wall Wave garlands o'er the joyful throngs That crowd his festival!