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ST. PETER’S DAY
When Herod would have brought him forth, the same night Peter was sleeping. Acts xii. 26.
Thou thrice denied, yet thrice belov’d,115115St. John xxi. 15-17. Watch by Thine own forgiven friend; In sharpest perils faithful prov’d, Let his soul love Thee to the end. |
The prayer is heard — else why so deep His slumber on the eve of death? And wherefore smiles he in his sleep As one who drew celestial breath? |
He loves and is belov’d again — Can his soul choose but be at rest? Sorrow hath fled away, and Pain Dares not invade the guarded nest. |
He dearly loves, and not alone: For his wing’d thoughts are soaring high Where never yet frail heart was known To breathe its vain Affection’s sigh. |
He loves and weeps — but more than tears Have seal’d Thy welcome and his love — One look lives in him, and endears Crosses and wrongs where’er he rove: |
That gracious chiding look,116116St. Luke xxii. 61. Thy call To win him to himself and Thee, Sweetening the sorrow of his fall Which else were ru’d too bitterly. |
E’en through the veil of sheep it shines, The memory of that kindly glance; — The Angel watching by, divines And spares awhile his blissful trance. |
Or haply to his native lake His vision wafts him back, to talk With Jesus, ere His flight He take, As in that solemn evening walk, |
When to the bosom of His friend, The Shepherd, He whose name is Good. Did His dear lambs and sheep commend, Both bought and nourish’d with His blood: |
Then laid on him th’ inverted tree, Which firm embrac’d with heart and arm, Might cast o’er hope and memory, O’er life and death, its awful charm. |
With brightening heart he bears it on, His passport through this eternal gates, To his sweet home — so nearly won, He seems, as by the door he waits, |
The unexpressive notes to hear Of angel song and angel motion, Rising and falling on the ear Like waves in Joy’s unbounded ocean. — |
His dream is chang’d — the Tyrant’s voice Calls to that last of glorious deeds — But as he rises to rejoice, Not Herod but an Angel leads. |
He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright, Glancing around his prison room — But ’tis a gleam of heavenly light That fills up all the ample gloom. |
The flame, that in a few short years Deep through the chambers of the dead Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears, Is waving o’er his dungeon-bed. |
Touch’d he upstarts — his chains unbind — Through darksome vault, up massy stair, His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind To freedom and cool moonlight air. |
Then all himself, all joy and calm, Though for a while his hand forego, Just as it touch’d, the martyr’s palm, He turns him to his task below; |
The pastoral staff, the keys of Heaven, To wield a while in grey-haired might, Then from his cross to spring forgiven, And follow Jesus out of sight. |
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