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HYMN XXVI. L. M. [RICHARDS.]
Cloud and Pillar of Fire. 'L ONG as the dark’ning cloud abode,
So long did ancient Ifr'el rest : Nor mov'd they, till the guiding God,
In brighter garments stood confeft. 2 Father of spirits ! light of light !
Lift up the cloud, and rend the vail :
Whose blackness makes the heart to fail. 3 'Tis done! to Christ the pow'r is giv'n :
His death, it rent the vail away,
great forerunner enters hear'n, And opes th' eternal gates of day. 4 Nor shall those mists that brood o'er time,
Forever blind the mental eye ;
Beams glory from the God on high. 5 Adoring nations hail his dawn,
All kingdoms bless the noontide beam,
HYMN XXVII. L. M. [RICHARDS.]
First Fruits. · BEHOLD! the grain of wheat that dies
Yet lives in nature's womb; Matur'd by death, to life arise,
A type of things to come. 2 This Ifriel faw in ancient days,
When dedicate to heaven,
The first ripe sheaf, with fongs of praise,
Here dwalt their hopes for cime to come
A harvest Åtke the root...,
The church first-born ase thine 1
The head of man diving. 2.3.
The rest of earth shall reap :
The ears are blersd that hear:
Nor toi! for living bread;
A table plen-'ous spread. 3
inheritance once fold,
Or price, it now returns... 4 O Jefus ! ever, blefi, , mit
Thou art our Jubilee 3 3!!
Our restoration and our rei,
Is all, dear Lamb, in thee.
Shall dwell on all our tongues ;
Thy praise in all their songs. 6 Worthy the honor'd name
Of Jesus Chrift, our Lord ;
HYMN XXIX. P. M. [TOPLÀDY's coii.
Jubilee. 1 BLOW ye the
Return, ye ranfom'd finners, home. 2 Exalt the Lamb of God,
The lin atoning Lamb;
Return, ye ransom'd finners home. 3 Ye, who have sold for nought
The heritage above ;
year of Jubilee is come;
4. Ye flaves of sin and hell,
Your liberty receive ;
Return, ye ransom'd finners, home. s The gospel trumpet hear,
The news of pard’ning grace :
Return, ye ransom'd finners home. 6 Jesus our great high priest
Has full atonement made :
HYMN XXX L. M. [GEN. BAP. COLL.]
Serpent of Brass. WHEN Ifrael's grieving tribes complain’d, A ferpent fraight the prophet made
Of molten brals, to view display'd.
To heaven their mournful sighs ascend ;
from the pole, Descends a power that makes them whole. 3 But, O, what healing to the heart,
Doth our Redeemer's cross impart !
What life, by faith, our souls receive !
What pleasures do his forrows give ! 4 Still may I view the Saviour's cross,
And other objects count but lofs :
Enraptur'd with his facrifice.
Thy worth my tongue would now proclaim ;
Which thro' the law are spread!
The true, the living bread.
His mystick form was shown ;
Of many, made but one.
Chrill's body forms one bread,
HYMN XXXII. L: M. (WATTS.]
HE king of saints, how fair his face, He comes with blelings from above, And win's the nations to his love.