Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time O most entire and perfect sacrifice, Renewed in every pulse That on the tedious Cross Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, The life-strings of that tender heart gave way; E’en sinners, taught by Thee, Look Sorrow in the face, And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:— And yet not all unsoothed; For when was Joy so dear, As the deep calm that breathed, “_Father_, _forgive_,” Or, “_Be with Me in Paradise to-day_?” And, though the strife be sore, Yet in His parting breath Love masters Agony; the soul that seemed Forsaken, feels her present God again, And in her Father’s arms Contented dies away. Wednesday before Easter. Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done. _St. Luke_ xxii. 42. O LORD my God, do thou Thy holy will— I will lie still— I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm, And break the charm Which lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast, In perfect rest. Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile With thy false smile: I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways; Be silent, Praise, Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all That hear thy call. Come, Self-devotion, high and pure, Thoughts that in thankfulness endure, Though dearest hopes are faithless found, And dearest hearts are bursting round. Come, Resignation, spirit meek, And let me kiss thy placid cheek, And read in thy pale eye serene Their blessing, who by faith can wean Their hearts from sense, and learn to love God only, and the joys above. They say, who know the life divine, And upward gaze with eagle eyne, That by each golden crown on high, Rich with celestial jewelry, Which for our Lord’s redeemed is set, There hangs a radiant coronet, All gemmed with pure and living light, Too dazzling for a sinner’s sight, Prepared for virgin souls, and them Who seek the martyr’s diadem. Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire, Must win their way through blood and fire. The writhings of a wounded heart Are fiercer than a foeman’s dart. Oft in Life’s stillest shade reclining, In Desolation unrepining, Without a hope on earth to find A mirror in an answering mind, Meek souls there are, who little dream Their daily strife an Angel’s theme, Or that the rod they take so calm Shall prove in Heaven a martyr’s palm.