It is beautifully written as to the blessed Lord:
“It should be the common delight of all His saints to trace Him in all His doings. For where are we to have our eternal joys but in Him and with Him? What, beloved, is suited to our delights, if Jesus and His ways, be not? What is there in any object to awaken joy, that we do not find in Him? What are these affections, sympathies, which either command or soothe our hearts? Is love needed to make us happy? If so, was ever love like His? If beauty can engage the sense, is it not to perfection in Him? If the treasures of the mind delight us in another, if richness and variousness fill and refresh, have we not all these in 'the communicated mind of Christ? Indeed, beloved, we should challenge our hearts to find their delight in Him. For we are to know Him so forever.”
But O! the more we learn of Thee
And Thy rich mercy prove,
The more we long Thy face to see,
And fully prove Thy love.
“TARRY YE HERE AND WATCH WITH ME.”
Wondrous the love of Him who spake these words,
Wondrous the grace to stoop so low to ask
Of men, to tarry and to watch with Him
One hour! With Him whose goings forth of old
From everlasting were. Whose word did form,
Whose power upheld creation's utmost bound.
Yes,-He did stoop to crave their tarrying
E'en for one hour, to watch with Him;-and yet
He asked in vain. Alone He prayed; alone
He watched. For comforters, He looked, and none
Did find. Wondrous the love of Christ!
Matchless the grace; Perfect the sympathy that flows
To lonely ones. Tell out thy grief to Him.
He felt the same. No human breast had He
To lean upon, no voice to soothe, or speak
Of comfort to His wounded heart. Not one
To watch with Him in that drear, darksome hour.
He knows it all. It was for thee, for, thee
Thou purchased one, He passed through all, and now
With open arms can welcome thee to come,
And pour out every grief, the keenest pang,
Or that too small for any ear save His.
Yes, pour out all, He can uphold, sustain,
Can comfort thee, can whisper peace, His peace E'en in the wildest storm. Nay more, can make all things work thy good, and yield to Him eternal praise.