They know the Almighty’s love, Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove, Stand in the shade, and hear The tumult with a deep exulting fear, How, in their fiercest sway, Curbed by some power unseen, they die away, Like a bold steed that owns his rider’s arm, Proud to be checked and soothed by that o’er-mastering chains. But there are storms within That heave the struggling heart with wilder din, And there is power and love The maniac’s rushing frenzy to reprove, And when he takes his seat, Clothed and in calmness, at his Savour’s feet, Is not the power as strange, the love as blest, As when He said, “Be still,” and ocean sank to rest? Woe to the wayward heart, That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start Of Passion in her might, Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;— Pleased in the cheerless tomb To linger, while the morning rays illume Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade, Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid. The storm is laid—and now In His meek power He climbs the mountain’s brow, Who bade the waves go sleep, And lashed the vexed fiends to their yawning deep. How on a rock they stand, Who watch His eye, and hold His guiding hand! Not half so fixed, amid her vassal hills, Rises the holy pile that Kedron’s valley fills. And wilt thou seek again Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain, And with the demons be, Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer’s knee? Sure ’tis no Heaven-bred awe That bids thee from His healing touch withdraw; The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd’st thy Lord depart. He, merciful and mild, As erst, beholding, loves His wayward child; When souls of highest birth Waste their impassioned might on dreams of earth, He opens Nature’s book, And on His glorious Gospel bids them look, Till, by such chords as rule the choirs above, Their lawless cries are tuned to hymns of perfect love. Fifth Sunday after Epiphany. Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear; but your iniquities have separated between you and your God. _Isaiah_ lix. 1, 2. “WAKE, arm Divine! awake, Eye of the only Wise! Now for Thy glory’s sake, Saviour and God, arise, And may Thine ear, that sealèd seems, In pity mark our mournful themes!” Thus in her lonely hour Thy Church is fain to cry, As if Thy love and power Were vanished from her sky; Yet God is there, and at His side He triumphs, who for sinners died.