Lo! on the slope of yonder shore
Beneath that lonely shed,
A saint hath found his conflicts o’er,
And laid his dying head!
No gloom of fear hath glazed his eye,
For, though loud billows roll,
The Aurora of Eternity
Is rising on his soul.
The glorious Saviour of his love
Receives him in His arms,
And bears him, like a ransomed dove,
Away from all alarms!
Champion of Jesus, man of God,
Servant of Christ, well done!
Thy path of thorns hath now been trod,
Thy red-cross crown is won!
O’er the wide waste of watery waves,
And leagues on leagues of land.
Amidst a wilderness of graves,
With death on every hand,
He flew to woo and win a world;
That men might kiss the feet
Of Him whose banner he unfurled, —
Father, — Son, — Paraclete.
His tongue, the Spirit’s two-edged sword.
Had magic in its blade;
For, while it smote with every word,
It healed the wounds it made!
His lips were love, his touch was power,
His thoughts were vivid flame, —
The flashes of a thunder-shower —
Where’er, or when they came!
Around him shone the light of life,
Before him darkness fell: —
Satan receded from the strife,
And sought his native hell!
Yet who so humbly walked as he,
A conqueror in the field,
Wreathing the rose of victory
Around his radiant shield?
As silvery clouds, at eventide.
Float on the balmy gale,
Nor seem to heed the stars they hide
Behind their fleecy veil,
So lowly sense of slightest worth
Fresh graces o’er him threw;
For he unconscious lived on earth
Of all the praise he drew!
Champion of Jesus, on that breast
From whence thy fervor flowed,
Thou hast obtained eternal rest,
The bosom of thy God!
-BRYDGES.