Tuesday in Easter Week

Lord, when my feet would turn away
From keeping of Thy Holy day
To worldly joy or care;
When secret pleasures of mine own
Tempt me one moment to disown
Thy blessed House of Prayer: —

When that sweet call of Sabbath bells,
Which on the ear now sinks now swells,
Hath fail'd my heart to win;
And, with averted soul and eye,
I pass Thine open portals by,
When others enter in: —

Let me remember days of gloom,
When, gathered in an upper room,
With closed and guarded door,
Depressed with fears, by foes beset,
Thy broken band of followers met,
In secret to adore.

No solemn pomp of worship theirs,
No bells to call to Holy prayers,
No aisles by thousands trod;
The Church, which was to bear to men
Freedom of soul, enjoyed not then
Freedom to worship God.

Yet never, in her palmiest days,
Or fairest shrines which love could raise,
Or most melodious choirs,
Rose truer service to the ear
Of Him, who stoops with joy to hear
The prayer which faith inspires.

The beauty of that little room,
The rainbow lights across its gloom,
Were love, and trust, and prayer;
The glory of that simple spot,
Where gold and frankincense were not,
Was, that their Lord was there.

His presence all their fears subdued,
His words of peace their faith renewed,
No more their souls complain;
He showed to them His hands and feet,
He shared with them their earthly meat,
And was their own again.

O Saviour! in a world like this
What purer joy, what deeper bliss,
Can faith for mortals win!
Their joy — Thy presence to adore!
Their bliss — an ever open door!
With grace to enter in.