HYMN OF THE PARTING CLASS.

We feel the parting angel's hand Is in our midst, to loose the band So close, so sacred, and so dear, That long hath bound us, brethren, here.

No more within this hallowed place, United at the throne of grace, Our prayers shall rise—our voices pour In praise, when this, our song is o'er.

To each we hear the Saviour say We to his work must hence away; For great the field—the laborers few! What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?

O send thy Spirit from above To fire our hearts with heavenly love; And light our lips with truth, that we May, witnesses, go forth for thee.

And may we count all else as loss To spread the glory of thy cross— From shades and death redeemed, to bring The priceless jewels of our King.

On distant islands of the sea— On heathen shores our lot may be, To dying souls to bear the bread And balm of life on Calvary shed.

Yet, though our lines be marked afar, And some beneath a foreign star, We may look upward to the Sun Of righteousness, and still be one.

And when our works of faith are past, In joy we 'll meet on high at last; And there, in praise, our voices swell The song, where enters no farewell.