And make him love a dying bed! Jesus! thy smile his heart can cheer, He's blest ev'n then, if thou art near. 3 The Gospel does salvation bring, And Jesus is the Gospel theme; In death, redeemed sinners sing, And triumph in the Saviour's name : "O death, where is thy sting?" they cry, "O grave, where is thy victory ?" 4 Then let me die the death of those Whom Jesus washes in his blood, Who on his faithfulness repose, And know that he indeed is God. Around his throne we all shall meet, And cast our crowns beneath his feet.
VANITY OF WORLDLY PLEASURES.
1 I quit the world's fantastic joys,
Her honours are but empty toys,
Her bliss an empty shade:
Like meteors in the midnight sky,
That glitter for awhile and die,
Her glories flash and fade.
2 Let fools for riches strive and toil,
Let greedy minds divide the spoil,
Tis all too mean for me:
Above the earth, above the skies,
My bold and fervent wishes rise,
My God, to heav'n and thee.
30 source of glory, life, and love!
When to thy courts I mount above,
On contemplation's wings,
I look with pity and disdain
On all the pleasures of the vain,
On all the pomp of kings.
4 Thy beauties rising in my sight,
Divinely sweet, divinely bright,
With rapture fill my breast;
Though robb'd of all my worldly store,
In thee I never can be poor,
But must be ever blest.
COMMUNION WITH CHRIST.
1 When in the hours of lonely wo,
I give my sorrows leave to flow;
And anxious fear and dark distrust
Weigh down my spirit to the dust;
2 When not e'en friendship's gentle aid
Can heal the wounds the world has made,
O this shall check each rising sigh,
That Jesus is for ever nigh.
3 His counsels and upholding care
My safety and my comfort are;
And he shall guide me all my days,
Till glory crown the work of grace.
4 Jesus! in whom but thee above
Can I repose my trust, my love?
And shall an earthly object be
Lov'd in comparison with thee?
5 My flesh is hast'ning to decay,
Soon shall the world have pass'd away;
And what can mortal friends avail,
When heart, and strength, and life shall
fail?
6 But, Oh! be thou, my Saviour, nigh,
And I will triumph while I die:
My strength, my portion is divine,
And Jesus is for ever mine.
1 Return, my roving heart, return,
And life's vain shadows chase no more;
Seek out some solitude to mourn,
And thy forsaken God implore.
20 thou great God, whose piercing eye
Distinctly marks each deep retreat,
In these sequester'd hours draw nigh,
And let me here thy presence meet.
3 Through all the windings of my heart,
My search let heav'nly wisdom guide;
And still its beams unerring dart,
Till all be known and purified.
4 Then let the visits of thy love,
My inmost soul be call'd to share,
Till ev'ry grace combine to prove,
That God has fix'd his dwelling there.
1 O Lord, my God, in mercy turn,
In mercy hear a sinner mourn!
To thee I call, to thee I cry,
O leave me, leave me not to die!
2 O pleasures past, what are ye now
But thorns about my bleeding brow!
Spectres that hover round my brain,
And aggravate and mock my pain.
3 For pleasure I have given my soul;
Now, justice, let thy thunders roll;
Now vengeance smile-and with a blow
Lay the rebellious ingrate low.
4 Yet Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,
I'll crouch beneath his sheltering wing;
I'll clasp the cross, and, holding there,
Even me, oh bliss! his love may spare.
SABBATH MORNING.
1 Dear is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day;
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.
2 And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.
S And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the blest abode,
Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God.
4 And dear the rustic harmony,
Sung with the pomp of village art;
That holy, heav'nly melody,
The music of a thankful heart.
5 In secret I have often pray'd,
And still the anxious tear would fall;
But, on thy sacred altar laid,
The fire descends and dries them all.
6 Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six-days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's
bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.
7 Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,
The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.
8 Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms,
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.
|