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The Book of Praise.
Take not on thee the yoke of Wealth ; 'Twill eat thy soul, destroy thy health, And make thee feel how cheap the cost, If worlds could buy the peace it lost.
Ambition, too, its yoke displays, And hangs out its perennial bays ; Be not, poor soul, by it misled ; I offer thee a crown instead.
Then take my yoke, 'tis soft and light, 'Twill ne'er disturb thy rest at night, But guide thee to that world above Where no restraint is known but love.
Robert Smith, i
Behold ! a Stranger's at the door \ He gently knocks, has knock'd before, Has waited long, is waiting still; You treat no other friend so ill.
But will He prove a Friend indeed ? He will! the very Friend you need ! The Man of Nazareth, 'tis He, With garments dyed at Calvary.
Oh lovely attitude ! He stands With melting heart, and laden hands ! Oh matchless kindness ! and He shows This matchless kindness to His foes.
Rise, touch'd with gratitude Divine ; Turn out His enemy and thine, That hateful, hell-born monster, Sin ; And let the Heavenly Stranger in.