No; sure with grateful joy alone Thou wilt thy Lord and Saviour meet, Within thy heart prepare His throne, And pour thy treasures at His feet! For think not Christ thy Guest can be Unless thy works His presence prove, As in Zaccheus, God in thee See acts of justice, deeds of love. Pure is the heart if God be there, That shrine no second lord receives; Christ suffers not His “house of prayer” To be the shameful “den of thieves.” Far from the temple that He loves He drives base passions, selfish care, With His own blood each stain removes, Then comes and dwells for ever there! XLII. THE MOURNER. Forth from the city gate of Nain Slow wends the funeral array, And friends by love or pity led Swell the procession on its way. There from one closely shrouded form The deep low sobs convulsive burst— The widow mourns her only son, And grief for her has done its worst. The Saviour meets the sorrowing one, And they that bear the bier stand still, The voice of grief is hushed in awe, And all in silence wait His will. The “Man of Sorrows” sees her woe, He who knew grief, for grief can feel; Weep not, thou mourner, Christ is near, As Man to pity, God to heal. He speaks the word, and death obeys: Is it the breeze that stirs the shroud? The stiffened limbs relax, they move With new and wondrous life endowed. Life dawns upon the ashen cheek, Through each cold vein life’s currents run, The dead man rises from his bier— The widow clasps her living son! Oh! ye bereaved ones, whose sad tears Some loved and lifeless form bedew, The Eye that saw and pitied her Looks in compassion down on you; Although no miracle at once Your loved one to your arms restore, That voice which waked the widow’s son Shall bid him live, to die no more. XLIII. THE CHRISTIAN BOND. When in our breasts we feel the flame of love, Kindled by heaven, becoming dim and low, When cold our feelings are to God above, Unsympathizing to His poor below, When kindness seems a task, and words impatient flow; How shall we cherish love’s declining light? By drawing forth from memory’s treasure-cave The recollection of that mournful night When Jesus to the flock He died to save Gave His last mild commands, His parting blessing gave. Muse on the solemn scene, till faith have power The inspired narrative to realize; And round the board at evening’s silent hour The chosen twelve appear, their anxious eyes Fixed on the Lamb of God, the spotless Sacrifice. Lo! on the bread His sacred hand he lays, That hand so soon transfixed for them to be; See the Redeemer’s sad uplifted gaze, And hear the accents breathing mournfully, “This do ye in remembrance still of Me!”