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18
PULPIT AND PRESS

Christ My Refuge

O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind
 There sweeps a strain,
Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind
 The power of pain.
 
And wake a white-winged angel throng
 Of thoughts, illumed
By faith, and breathed in raptured song,
 With love perfumed.
 
Then his unveiled, sweet mercies show
 Life's burdens light.
I kiss the cross, and wake to know
 A world more bright.
 
And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea
 I see Christ walk,
And come to me, and tenderly,
 Divinely talk.
 
Thus Truth engrounds me on the rock,
 Upon Life's shore;
'Gainst which the winds and waves can shock,
 Oh, nevermore!
 
From tired joy and grief afar,
 And nearer Thee, —
Father, where Thine own children are,
 I love to be.