And let a beam of love divine,
Illume my dying bed.
6 Leaning on thy dear, faithful breast,
May I resign my breath;
And in thy soft embraces lose "The bitterness of death."
HYMN DCCCCXXVIII.
The Backslider. Jer. xxxi. 18—20.
1 RETURN, O wanderer, return,
And seek an injured Father's face;
Those warm desires that in thee burn,
Were kindled by reclaiming grace.
2 Return, O wanderer, return,
And seek a Father's melting heart; Whose pitying eyes thy grief discern, Whose hand can heal thine inward smart.
3 Return, O wanderer, return,
He heard thy deep, repentant sigh;
He saw thy soften'd spirit mourn,
When no intruding ear was nigh.
4 Return, O wanderer, return,
Thy Saviour bids thy spirit live;
Go to his bleeding feet and learn
How freely Jesus can forgive."
5 Return, O wanderer, return,
And wipe away the falling tear;
"Tis God who says "no longer mourn,"
"Tis mercy's voice invites thee near.
6 Return, O wanderer, return,
Regain thy lost, lamented rest;
Jehovah's melting bowels yearn,
To clasp his Ephraim to his breast.
HYMN DCCCCXXIX.
The Transfiguration. Luke ix. 28–31.
N Tabor's top the Saviour stands,
His alter'd face resplendent shines;
And while he elevates his hands,
Lo! glory marks its gentle lines!
2 Two heavenly forms descend to wait,
Upon their suffering Prince below;
But while they worship at his feet,
They talk of fast approaching woe.
3 Amid the lustre of the scene,
To Calvary he turns his eyes;
And with submission all serene,
He marks the future tempest rise.
4 Our lives thus mingle joy and grief,
As violets peep through wintry snows;
We may obtain some short relief,
But soon the gale of sorrow blows.
5 But when we climb the mount of prayer,
We lose our woes in joys divine;
Transfigur'd while our God is there,
In borrow'd beams our faces shine.
60 that on yonder heavenly hills,
Where now the risen Saviour stands,
And peace, like softest dew, distils—
I too may elevate my hands.
HYMN DCCCCXXX.
Dying Jacob. Gen. xlviii. 21.
HAT solemn hour will surely come,
Nor distant is the day;
When in the shadows of the tomb,
This life shall fade away.
2 The cup of trembling in my hand,
My fearful soul must drink;
And wavering, hoping, shivering, stand
On life's alarming brink.
3 Amid the anguish and the strife,
That shrinking nature fears,
Look gently down, great Source of life,
And dry death's starting tears!
4 Serene, like Jacob, I would die,
And "gather up my feet:"
Would chide the lingering hour-and fly
My Saviour-God to meet.
5 My dearest comforts I could leave,
With glory in mine eyes;
Would wipe the tears of those that grieve,
And point them to the skies.
6 My trembling lips-if thou art nigh,
When life's sad hours are few;
With joy shall say—“Behold I die,
"But God shall be with you!"
HYMN DCCCCXXXI.
An Evening Hymn. Job viii. 9.
NOTHER fleeting day is gone,
Slow o'er the west the shadows rise; Swift the soft, stealing hours have flown, And night's dark mantle veils the skies.
2 Another fleeting day is gone,
Swept from the records of the year; And still with each successive sun, Life's fading visions disappear.
3 Another fleeting day is gone,
To tell thy secrets, O my soul;
Faithful before th' eternal throne,
Thy slightest folly, 'twill enrol.
4 Another fleeting day is gone,
To join the fugitives before:
And I, when life's employ is done,
Shall sleep, to wake in time no more.
5 Another fleeting day is gone,
And soon a fairer day shall rise; A day, whose never-setting sun, Shall
pour his light o'er cloudless skies.
6 Another fleeting day is gone,
In solemn silence rest, my soul;
Bend-bend before his awful throne,
Who bids the morn and evening roll!
Faith amid Famine. Hab. iii. 17, 18.
THEN dreadful o'er a mourning land,
In anger God extends his hand;
Shut are the cisterns of the sky,
And earth's unnumber'd springs are dry.
2 The blighted corn expects in vain,
The early and the latter rain;
Nor moru, nor evening dew, distils,
To satisfy the thirsty hills.
3 No grass, no herb, adorns the ground,
No blossom on the tree is found;
No olive yields it's cheering oil,
Nor fruit rewards" the tiller's toil."
4 Creation droops on every hand,
When famine desolates the land;
And panting in the toils of death,
The languid herds resign their breath.
5 Yet should the Spring withhold her showers,
Nor Autumn yield her wonted stores;
Should Wintry tempests, loud and high,
Rush on the Summer's smiling sky:
6 My soul, in this tremendous hour,
Great God, would still adore thy power;
With trembling voice the anthem raise,
And speak in dying strains thy praise!
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