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But oh, how diff’rent is the Prince of Peace!
He comes to bid the rage of conflict cease;
He lifts His hand above the stormy sea
Of human passion, surging wrathfully,
And lo! its maddened waves in peace subside,–
Hushed is the tempest-roar of power and pride,–
The desert and the wilderness rejoice,
And life awakes at His creative voice,–
Peace spans with rainbow arch the weeping sky,
And angels smile from their pure homes on high!

And yet our Prince is more. He is a PRIEST,
In whom signs, symbols, offrings all have ceased;
For, more than Priest, a SACRIFICE He stands,
With streaming side, and bloody feet and hands,
Bearing to Heaven, not blood of bullocks slain,
Nor victims’ ashes sprinkling the unclean,
But His own blood, an offering to Heaven
That God might thus be just and man forgiven,
Himself, at once, Prince, Priest, and Sacrifice,
Man mediatorial, Lord of Earth and Skies,–
Angels in vain the myst’ry would explore,
And men and angels mutually adore!
Yet, as though these were not enough, we find
Him stooping still, to meet the human mind,
Under still other names His boundless grace
And love to symbolize for Adams race.

See yonder flock upon the mountain bare
Is there no hand to guide or tend them there?
When the wild beast comes prowling from his den,
Who will protect the helpless creatures then?
Who, when the pastures fail, and springs are dry,
Will lead them forth where greener pastures lie?

What pitiest thou the helpless flock?–so He,
Thy watchful friend, in pity thinks of thee
“I the GOOD SHEPHERD am, and ye the sheep,
With tenderest care my little flock I keep,
No ravenous beast shall prey upon my own,
They know my voice, and follow me alone”

Is yonder sun a welcome sight to thee,
As up the east he rides exultingly?–
Do the hills wake to beauty as he comes,
And valleys blush with countless opening blooms?
Do the streams sparkle, and the woodlands ring
With the sweet lays the happy warblers sing?
He is a SUN, and where His radiance streams
Beauty and gladness waken in His beams,
The soul expands to perfect leaf and flower,
And ripening fruitage waits the vintage hour,–
Songs of rejoicing float upon the air,
And ‘neath His rays ’tis Summer everywhere.

Is yonder vine a pleasant, goodly thing,
As upward still its laden branches spring,
As its ripe clusters woo the longing sight
To linger still with ever new delight?
“I’m the TRUE VINE,” saith Christ, “the branches ye,–
The living Vine, abide ye still in me;
Thus shall my life to every branch be given,
Thus shall each branch bring forth the fruit of Heaven!”

See, yonder traveller in a desert land,
Toils day by day o’er tracks of burning sand,
A lurid sky above–beneath, around,
The dreary desert spreads its wastes profound.
With blistered feet, and aching, blood-shot eye,
Long dimly strained some fountain to descry,
Onward he toils, while hope, as days depart,
Grows feebler, fainter, at his weary heart

On the horizon’s verge he sees at length
A shadowy line, and lo, his failing strength
In a full tide returns!–His weary feet
Speed gladly on, by courage rendered fleet:
He gains the fount, he drinks, and toil and care,
And dread and danger, all forgotten are!

So, to life’s weary pilgrim, Christ is made
In the drear desert a refreshing SHADE!
A FOUNT OF LIVING WATER, never dry,
To all the thirsty yielding full supply,–
A WELL OF WATER ever springing up
To Life Eternal–fount of joy and hope!