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IV.

Their faith hath triumphed; with the sound
Of rushing thunder backward fly
The affrighted billows, and the ground
They moistened now is dry:

Cleft in the midst the waters stand
Obedient to their God's command,
Towering aloft on either hand
A glassy and resplendent heap,
Where scenes that bless the promised land
In mirrored beauty sleep.

V.

And fearless down the dark defile
The countless hosts of Israel go,
And loud, from trump and harp, the while,
The strains of gladness flow.

The depths, that voices never gave
But those of warring wind and wave,
Send from their dark and oozy grave

The echoing tread of joyous throngs,
And praise to Him whose hand can save,
In loud triumphant songs.

VI.

And now the farther shore they gain,
And, kneeling, kiss the promised spot
Which, through long years of toil and pain,
Their anxious steps had sought.
Whilst, with a wide and maddening roar,
The tides, disjoined from shore to shore,
Their long-suspended waters pour
To fill the yawning gulf between.
Closed is the bright, mysterious door
By which they entered in.

VII.

Christian! behold the typic shade
Of that dim path prepared for thee;
Behold in Jordan's tide displayed

Death's ever-flowing sea.

Thou treadest still Life's desert plain
In toil and sorrow, care and pain;

Trials and doubts and fears maintain

With thee a fierce and bitter strife, And but for heavenly aid would gain The conquest o'er thy life.

VIII.

Yet soon that toilsome war shall cease,
And thou beside the flood shalt stand,
Beyond whose waves are realms of peace-
A pure and holy land.

But if thou still hast kept the Ark
Of God before thee as a mark,
Fear not the troubled waters dark,

Howe'er they rage and chafe and roar:
On that mysterious voyage embark,
And God will guide thee o'er.

IX.

Press boldly on in faith and prayer,

And waves of doubt and floods of fear
Shall part, and leave a passage there
To changeless glories near:

The dim obscurity shall fail

In death's dark pass and shadowy vale,
And thou with gladdened eye shalt hail
Bright glimpses of the glorious things
Which lie beyond, and render pale
The angels' flashing wings.

X.

And when thou'st gained that blessed shore,
For ever freed from sin and pain,
Death's cheated waves shall hiss and roar,
Mingling their streams again.

Hence, ever closed, that shadowy door
Shall entrance give to Earth no more;
And thou shalt reach the golden floor,
By Jesus lit and angels trod,

Ever and ever to adore

Thy Saviour and thy God.

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"Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them."--Rom. i. 32.

NE Sunday afternoon, a few years ago, two young railway porters stood on the platform at the Dstation. They had an hour's leave before the next up-train came in.

as to how they should spend it.

have a bit of fun," they said.

They were making plans "Let us go where we can

"If it's fun you want," said an old porter who was passing by, "just you run up the ladder and look into the signalhouse. There you'll see the signal-man reading the Bible,

Also may be had as a Tract, price 2s. per 100.

and he'll give you a lot of tracts, and maybe preach you a sermon into the bargain; and it will be the best bit of fun you ever had in your life."

Scarcely were the words spoken when the two thoughtless young men were at the top of the ladder, looking in at the open door of the signal-house. There, sure enough, sat the signal-man, enjoying the hour of leisure also allowed to him, with a Bible open before him; and, to add to the "fun," he got up and handed a tract to each of them, desiring them to read it.

"Read it! oh yes!" said they; and forthwith one of them began to read aloud a sentence here and there in what he supposed to be a true Methodist drawl, advancing with his companion, as he did so, into the signal-house, the more to rouse, as they both expected, the anger of the signal-man. But they were not prepared for what followed. Without saying a word, the signal-man rose up, locked the door behind them, put the key in his pocket, and sat down.

"Young men," he then said, "it is not often I have an opportunity of speaking a word to you about your souls. I have one now, and I will make the most of it. I will read you some passages from God's Word, and will endeavour to explain them to you. Will you kindly be still whilst I do So ?"

"No, indeed," said the young men, "we didn't bargain for that. We have but an hour's leave, and a good bit of it's gone already, and we don't mean to spend the rest hearing a sermon. So you'll unlock the door and let us out."

"No," said the signal-man, "I shall not let you out till I have said what I have got to say. You know how often an accident happens to those employed on the line. How can I know that it might not be so this very day? And what account could I give of myself to God if I had had this opportunity of speaking to you of Christ, and had neglected it? If one of you were killed, I should then feel that your blood was upon my head." And, in spite of their further angry remonstrances, the signal-man read one passage after

another from the Word of God. He spoke to them of the awful danger of the unsaved sinner, of the love of God even to those dead in sin, shown in sending His Son to die for them. He told them God had pardon and life for such as they were, on account of what His Son had done.

When he had spoken at some length, he unlocked the door and said, "I am now clear of your blood; I can do no more but pray for you." The two young men then went down the ladder, cursing and swearing, for their hour was all but over, the up-train was close at hand, and one of them had to go on with it to London, returning by the following down-train. The signal-man's sermon seemed to have left no impression upon either of them but that of disgust. Perhaps you think that it was unwise of the signalman so to have forced the subject upon them, and that he should have waited for a more fit season. But God, who has told us to be "instant in season," has also told us to be "instant out of season."

The young porter who had to go to London tried, no doubt, to forget all that had passed in the signal-house, and to think of something more agreeable. But he was to be reminded of the signal-man's last words in a way he little expected. His journey to London and back occupied two or three hours, and he returned to D as the evening closed in. He at once saw as he stepped out on the platform that something unusual had happened. There were anxious-looking people going to and fro, there were marks of blood on the platform, and a little group of men with awe-struck faces were crowding round the door of one of the offices. The young man seemed to hear again ringing in his ears the words he had tried to forget-" There might be an accident to-day, and one of you might be killed."

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Something the matter?" he inquired, quite afraid to hear the answer. "Yes," he was told; a porter slipped off the platform just as the last train went by. It took both his legs off. They have taken him in there. He is dying."

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