Nashville Union And American

Sunday Reading.

Tears.

Flow, tears! Ye have a spell
A gentle spell, which weaves
Itself o'er my sad heart,
And its dull woe relieves.

Ye are all eloquent.
In your soft, silent flow,
When, lone and musingly,
I feel my heart sink low.

Ye soothe the aching sense
Of pain, which pressing weighs
Upon the troubled soul,
And all its youth decays.

Ye are not for the gaze
Of the cold, scornful eye;
No mocking look shall rest,
None know,—but purity.

And ye shall mingle
With the dews of even;
Soft pity may descend,
And bear ye up to heaven;

May tell how I have wept,
Have agonized alone,
While "rainbow-tinted hopes"
Have faded, one by one.

And, sadder far than all,
The burning anguish wrung
By sin, whose withering touch
Upon my spirit hang;

And left her taint accursed.—
Grieving the Holy Dove,
Which fondly I loved there,
An earnest of God's love.

Flow tears! flow on, and calm
This troubled, aching breast;
Your mournful tenderness
Lulls agony to rest.

Hope gushes with you,
Telling of that fair land
Where tears are wiped away
For aye, by God's own hand.

I will believe, and live.
The cross of Christ I take;
My God accepts my tears
For his dear Jesu's sake!