Whilst fast from His veins spouting blood
Runs, dyeing with purple the green!

Behold! the red flood rolls along,
And forming a bason below,
Is termed in Emanuel's song
The fount for uncleanness and woe.
Immerged in that precious tide,
The soul quickly loses its stains,
Though deeper than crimson they're dyed,
And 'scapes from its sorrows and pains.

This fountain is opened for you:
Go, wash, without money or price;
And instantly formed anew,
You'll lose all your woes in a trice.
Then cease, foolish heart, to repine,
No stage is exempted from care;
If you would true happiness find,
'Tis on Calvary--seek for it there.




WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.


Rude winter's come, the sky's o'ercast,
The night is cold and loud the blast,
The mingling snow comes driving down,