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A CHRISTIAN WREATH.
THE INFANT JESUS.
"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon His shoulder; and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of peace."-Isaiah ix. 6,
"And thou shalt call His name Jesus: for He shall save His people from their sins."-Matt. i. 21.
"TIS eve, and wearied Nature sinks to rest,
In Judah's land, beneath an olive green,
Sits a young mother, calm: her thoughtful mien
Deepens the glowing red, and shews that care,
Happy his watchful mother, though her eye
Which clouds her features, as she fain would
And penerate the scenes of coming days.
Who is that mother mild, that infant fair,
Rich in his dimpled charms, and clustering
Behold thy Maker in that feeble frame!
Shrined in a human form the God-head
From Satan's slavish chains to set us free,
To rescue man from guilt and misery.
Gaze on! and know the deep, the matchless love,
That brought the Lord of glory from above. Love plumed his wings, and sped his downward flight
From those bright scenes of joy and heavenly
Love moved His gracious heart to veil His face,
And pour His life-blood for a guilty race.
That waits that stranger infant here below.
Think of the pride and scorn, the taunting
The hellish enmity, the savage leer,
The bitter hatred of the zealous Jew,
With the brute beasts a place of shelter there
As years advanced, so care and sorrow prest, Dimmed His meek eye, and filled His holy
Despised, rejected He, and full of grief,
No hand, no loving heart to give relief:
Yet not His own, but other's sins He mourned, To cleanse their crimson stains His Spirit burned
To ease the heavy laden, and to feel
Each mourner's woe, each stricken heart to heal.
From every pore oozed the dark drops of
In that lone garden, when the fearful flood
As o'er His head the raging billows roll. Sinner, come hither-know thy heavy guilt, Crushed that bowed head, that willing lifeblood spilt;
Forced from His quiv'ring lips the bitter cry Of utter woe, and writhing agony,
(When in deep anguish hanging on the tree)
'My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?" Sinner, still gaze, and cast a look of faith
On that slain Lamb, (who with His dying breath
Prayed for His murderers,) lay thy load of sin Upon thy loving Saviour, and begin
Meekly to follow Him, and bear the cross,
Counting all else but worthless dung and dross;