ON SABBATH EVE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 11923, 22 December 1900, Page 2

ON SABBATH EVE.

A COLUMN OF RELIGIOUS

READING,

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. " What means this glory round our feet,' The Magi mused, " more bright than morn?" And voices chanted clear and sweet, "To-day the Prince of Peace is born!" "What means that Star?" the shepherd said, "That brightens through the- rocky glen?','1 And angels answering overhead, Sang "Peace on earth, goodwill to menl" 'Tis eighteen hundred years and more Since those sweet oracles were dumb; We wait for Him, like them of yore: Alas! He seems so slow to come! But it was said, in words of gold No time or sorrow e'er shall dim, That little children might be told In perfect trust to come to Him. All round about our feet shall shine A light like that the wise men saw. If we our loving wills incline To that sweet Life which is the Law. So shall we learn to understand The simple faith of shepherds then, And clasping kindly hand-in-hnnd, Sing, " Peace on earth, goodwill to men." And they who do their souls no wrong, But keep at eve the faith oi morn, Shall dnily hear the ange!-song, " To-day the Prince of Peace is born."

James Russell Lowell.

BY BABY'S GRAVE.

[We were in Dr Joseph Parker's chuioh, tha City Temple, London, a few weeks ago, and we noticed the following words of the great preacher printed on the week's calendar. How human they are! How comforting and tender! How much they disclose of the secret of Paik«r'B power!—Kd. Endeavour World.] Amid all the whirl and dizziness of life's tragedy, in which creation seems to be but one great cloud, I find myself suddenlybrought to a sweet baby's grave. A gray old church, a gurgling stream, a far-spread-ing thorn tree on a green hillock, and a grave on the sunny southern side. That is it. Thither I hasten night and day, and in patting the soft grass I feel as if conveying some sense of love to the little sleeper far down. Do not reason with me about it; let the wild heart, in sweet delirium of love, have all its own way.

Baby was but two years old when, like a dewdrop, he went up to the warm sun, yet he left my heart as I have seen ground left out of which a storm had torn a great tree. We talk about the influence of great thinkers, great speakers, and great writers, but what about the little infant's power? 0 child of my heart! no poet has been so poetical, no soldier so victorious, no benefactor so kind, as thy tiny unconscious self. I feel thy soft kiss on ray withered lips just now, and would give all I have for one look of thy dreamy eyes. But I cannot have it.

Yet God is love. Not dark doubt, not staggering argument, not subtle sophism, but child-death, especially where there is but one, makes me wonder and makes-me cry in pain. Baby. baby! I could begin the world again without a loaf or a friend if I had but thee; such a beginning, with all its hardship, would be welcome misery. I do not wonder that the grass is green and soft that covers that little grave, and that the summer birds sing their tenderest notes as thejr sit on the branches of that old hawthorn tree.

My God! Father of mine, in the blue heavens, is not this the heaviest cross that can crush the weakness of man? Yet that green grave, not oft long, is to me a great estate, making me rich with wealth untold. I can pray there. There I meet the infant angels; there I see all the mothers whose spirits are above; and there my heart sayc strange things in strange words—Baby, I am coining, coming soon! Do you know me? Do you see me? Do you look from sunny places down to this cold land of weariness? 0 baby, sweet, sweet baby, I will try for your sake to be a better man; I will be kind to other little babies, and tell them your name, and sometimes let them play with your toys; but, oh, baby, baby, baby, my old heart sobs and breaks!