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,
The glorious sun sets in the golden west;
A soft dew falls on every herb and flower,
The warbling birds retire to tree and bower.

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In Judah's land, beneath an olive green,

Sits a young mother, calm: her thoughtful mien
Watching the slumbers of her infant boy,
With anxious love, and deep, yet chastened joy.
His drooping eyelids veil the closing eyes,
Clear as the sunny radiance of the skies;
His waving hair curls round His arched brow,
Kissing His dimpled cheeks, where slumber

now

Deepens the glowing red, and shews that care,
And dreams of agony, are absent there.
His little hand unclasped with native grace
Falls gently down, and in His baby face,
From passions dark, and evil tempers free,
Beam holy love, and sweet simplicity.

Happy his watchful mother, though her eye
Betrays a presage of futurity,

Which clouds her features, as she fain would

gaze

And penerate the scenes of coming days.

Who is that mother mild, that infant fair,

Rich in his dimpled charms, and clustering

hair?

Behold thy Maker in that feeble frame!

Shrined in a human form the God-head

came:

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

light;

Love moved His gracious heart to veil His face,

And pour His life-blood for a guilty race.
Gaze on! and ponder on the life of woe

That waits that stranger infant here below.

Think of the pride and scorn, the taunting

sneer,

The hellish enmity, the savage leer,

The bitter hatred of the zealous Jew,
The wavering weakness of His chosen few;
Foxes have holes, birds of the air a nest,
But their Creator hath not where to rest.
Cradled within a manger, left to share

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

breast;

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

blood,

In that lone garden, when the fearful flood
Of all His Father's wrath o'erwhelmed His

soul,

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)

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'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;