The Lion, he strayeth near and far; What heights hath he left untrod? He crawleth nigh to the purest star, On the trail of the saints of God. And throughout the darkness of things unclean, In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood, There prowleth ever with yearning mien-- A lamb as white as Blood! IN CHERRY LANE BY REV. WILLIAM LIVINGSTON In Cherry Lane the blossoms blow In wreaths of white around the trees, And spread their petals wide, as though They longed for nectar-seeking bees. O’erhead, the arching boughs that spring From pillar trunks look down and smile On lowly currant shrubs that cling Around their feet along the aisle. In Cherry Lane the sunbeams steal Through many a leaf and branch above, And tender shoots come forth to feel The touches of a wondrous love. And life grows warmer with the hours, Unmoved, unchilled by human pang, Till from the stems now robed in flowers The great red drops in clusters hang. Ah, Mother mine! white blossoms came And filled my soul with thoughts of thee, Who art to those that love thy name What honeyed buds are to the bee. Thou art the floweret white and fair, A virgin from thy stainless birth, The fruitful stem designed to bear A Saviour to our sinful earth. And when the cherries, ripe and red, Come forth upon the breast of June, They’ll tell me of a heart that bled, By men forgotten all too soon. Ah, precious drops! through future days Preserve my soul from spot or stain, With tender thoughts of love and praise That once were mine in Cherry Lane. SURRENDER BY S. M. M. If thou art merely conscious clay--ah, well, Tire not such stuff with futile, tread-mill climb Which lifts to leave thee level with the slime; Nor think that death can break thy earth-born spell; Clay hath no heel Achillean, vulnerable. Be animate till some deliberate time Shall choke and crunch thee to potential grime, For thou art fit for neither heaven nor hell. But He Who made thee cousin to the clod First plunged thee in the Spirit Which is He, Whence thou hast risen, divinely armed and shod To scale the ramparts of eternity. Already stricken with the shafts of God, Thou fallest prisoner to the Deity. HYMN FOR PENTECOST BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN Pure Spirit of the always-faithful God, Kindler of Heaven’s true light within the soul! From the lorn land our sainted fathers trod, Ascends to Thee our cry of hope and dole. Thee, Thee we praise; To Thee we raise Our choral hymn in these awakening days: O send us down anew that fire Which of old lived in David’s and Isaiah’s lyre.