THE INSTITUTION.


Come to thy place, thou blessed of the Lord,
Come up into thy place. The tuneful choir,
The solemn organ, with its gladdening breath,
The sunbeam pouring through the tinted pane
A flood of richness, all with varied voice
Do give thee welcome. But there flows a tide
Of deeper gratulation through those hearts
Which hail thee as Jehovah's messenger
To them for good. Yea, enter in, and take
Thy holy office. With the Spirit's power
Preach thou repentance—aid the victor-strife
O'er vanity and sin; lead hungering souls
To their Redeemer's feast; instruct to wear
The rose-bud garland of prosperity
With chastened joy, and ever through the maze
Of earthly discipline, to recognize
A Father's hand.
                            Come to our hearths, our homes,
And as our infants climb upon thy knee
Speak of His lessons and His love, who bade
Such little ones, with unforbidden trust,
Cling to his bosom. So their hearts shall blend
The incipient knowledge of a law divine
With thy paternal smile. Come, when the hour
Of sickness darkens—when the nightly clock
Is told in anguish, and the stifled step
Of the meek watcher is a weariness,

Come with the gospel's balm, and like the dew
Of Hermon, to the fainting lily—cheer
The sufferer's spirit.
                                  When the brow is blanched,
And the cold, quivering lip doth feebly spurn
Time's last poor water-drop—then be thou near;
Yea, when the dull ear to affection's tone
No longer vibrates, lift thy fervent prayer
And to the waiting angels' outspread wing,
And to the Everlasting Shepherd's arms,
Commend the parting soul.
                                             When the pale clay
That love hath worshipped, to the open grave
In funeral vestments cometh, stand thou there,
And by the might of thine ascended Lord
Adjure the pit to render back its trust
A glorious body when the archangel's trump
Heralds eternity.
                              So guide thy flock
Faithful in all their need, whether their path
By crystal streams shall wind, with flowers besprent,
Or sad through withering pastures, where the vine
Yieldeth no fruit, and winter's stormy wrath
Doth desolate the fold, so guide them still,
And girded by their blessings and their prayers,
Go on in priestly sanctity to God.