THE LIVING SACRIFICE.

Amid the forest's silent shades Where nature reigns supreme, A little band had met to hear The glorious gospel theme. I gazed upon the dusky forms Of Indians gathered there, And thought how once the red man owned Those lands so rich and fair. But now he roams throughout the plains Where once his fathers dwelt, A poor heart-stricken wanderer, For him none pity felt. But hark! the preacher's solemn tone My wand'ring thoughts recall; He preaches Jesus crucified, Jesus who died for all. He tells, with simple eloquence, How the Good Shepherd came To save the erring sheep He loved, From ruin and from shame. He speaks of sad Gethsemane, Then tells the eager crowd, How Jesus Christ was crucified By cruel men and proud. And at his words like forest trees Moved by the rushing blast, O'er the proud hearts of those dark men A wondrous change then passed. They wept—nature's lone children wept At that sweet tale of love— To think that Jesus died that they Might dwell with Him above. And one of that wild forest's sons, Of tall and noble frame, While tears bedewed his manly cheek, Towards the preacher came. "What? did the blessed Saviour die And shed His blood for me? Was it for my sins Jesus wept In dark Gethsemane? "What can poor Indian give to Thee, Jesus, for love like thine? The lands my fathers once possessed Are now no longer mine; "Our hunting-grounds are all upturned By the proud white man's plough, My rifle and my dog, alas! Are my sole riches now. "Yet these I fain would give to Him On Calvary's cross who bled; Will Christ accept so mean a gift?"— The stranger shook his head. The Indian chief a moment paused, And downward cast his eyes: Then suddenly from round his neck His blanket he unties. "This, with my rifle and my dog, Are all I have to give; Yet these to Jesus I would bring; He died that I might live! "Stranger! will Jesus Christ receive These tokens of my love?" The preacher answered, "Gifts like these Please not the God above." The humble child of ignorance His head in sorrow bent; Absorbing thought unto his brow Its saddening influence lent. He raised his head, a gleam of hope O'er his dark features passed, As when on some deep streamlet's breast The sun's bright beams are cast. His eyes were filled with glistening tears, And earnest was his tone; "Here is poor Indian! Jesus, take, And make him all thine own." A thrill of joy passed through the crowd, To see how grace divine Could cause the heart of th' Indian chief With heav'nly love to shine;— Such love as made him yield with joy Body and soul to Him Whose watchful care can never fail, Whose love can ne'er grow dim.