PART I.

Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it.

Remember not, Lord, our iniquities, nor the iniquities of our forefathers: Spare us, good Lord, spare Thy people, whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy most precious blood, and be not angry with us for ever.

Answ. Spare us, good Lord.

B

Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it.

PEACE.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

My soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry
All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my soul, awake!) Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it.

J. S.

THE more by Thought thou leav'st the crowd be

hind,

Draw near by deeper love to all thy kind;
So shall thy heart in lowly peace be still,
And earthly wisdom serve a Heavenly will.

No holier truth has reached us from above
Than this, Love errs not but by want of Love.

J. S.

Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it.

BIRDS have their quiet nest,

J. S. MONSELL.

Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful bed;
All creatures have their rest,-

But Jesus had not where to lay His head.

Winds have their hour of calm,

And waves, to slumber on the voiceless deep;
Eve hath its breath of balm,

To hush all senses and all sounds to sleep.

The wild deer hath his lair, The homeward flocks the shelter of their shed; All have their rest from care,— But Jesus had not where to lay His head.

And yet He came to give

The weary and the heavy-laden rest;
To bid the sinner live,

And soothe our griefs to slumber on His breast.

What then am I, my God, Permitted thus the paths of peace to tread? Peace, purchased by the blood

Of Him who had not where to lay His head!

I, who once made Him grieve;

I, who once bid His gentle spirit mourn ;
Whose hand essayed to weave

For His meek brow the cruel crown of thorn :

O why should I have peace ?

Why? but for that unchanged, undying love,
Which would not, could not cease,

Until it made me heir of joys above.

Yes! but for pardoning grace,

I feel I never should in glory see

The brightness of that face,

That once was pale and agonized for me!

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