He on the rock may bid us stand, and see The outskirts of His march of mystery, His endless warfare with man’s wilful heart; First, His great Power He to the sinner shows Lo! at His angry blast the rocks unclose, And to their base the trembling mountains part Yet the Lord is not here: ’Tis not by Power He will be known—but darker tempests lower; Still, sullen heavings vex the labouring ground: Perhaps His Presence thro’ all depth and height, Best of all gems that deck His crown of light, The haughty eye may dazzle and confound. God is not in the earthquake; but behold From Sinai’s caves are bursting, as of old, The flames of His consuming jealous ire. Woe to the sinner should stern Justice prove His chosen attribute;—but He in love Hastes to proclaim, “God is not in the fire.” The storm is o’er—and hark! a still small voice Steals on the ear, to say, Jehovah’s choice Is ever with the soft, meek, tender soul; By soft, meek, tender ways He loves to draw The sinner, startled by His ways of awe: Here is our Lord, and not where thunders roll. Back, then, complainer; loath thy life no more, Nor deem thyself upon a desert shore, Because the rocks the nearer prospect close. Yet in fallen Israel are there hearts and eyes That day by day in prayer like thine arise; Thou know’st them not, but their Creator knows. Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last In joy to find it after many days. The work be thine, the fruit thy children’s part: Choose to believe, not see: sight tempts the heart From sober walking in true Gospel ways. Tenth Sunday after Trinity. And when He was come near, He beheld the city, and wept over it. _St. Luke_ xix. 41. WHY doth my Saviour weep At sight of Sion’s bowers? Shows it not fair from yonder steep, Her gorgeous crown of towers? Mark well His holy pains: ’Tis not in pride or scorn, That Israel’s King with sorrow stains His own triumphal morn. It is not that His soul Is wandering sadly on, In thought how soon at death’s dark goal Their course will all be run, Who now are shouting round Hosanna to their chief; No thought like this in Him is found, This were a Conquerer’s grief. Or doth He feel the Cross Already in His heart, The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss? Feel e’en His God depart? No: though He knew full well The grief that then shall be— The grief that angels cannot tell— Our God in agony. It is not thus He mourns; Such might be martyr’s tears, When his last lingering look he turns On human hopes and fears; But hero ne’er or saint The secret load might know, With which His spirit waxeth faint; His is a Saviour’s woe.