DEATH OF A TEACHER. C. M. For we shall meet no more, On Zion's happier shore. The cold and lifeless clay And there it must decay. His happy spirit flies The long expected prize. Soon we shall rise to thee; And when we meet no tongue can tell How great our joys shalî be. DEATH, 121. C. M. Thou Maker of my frame; And learn how frail I am. 1 * Or Sister. 2 A span is all that wo can boast, An inch or two of time; Man is but vanity and dust, In all his flower and prime. 3 What should I wish or wait for thon From creatures, earth and dust? C. M. Behold the king of dread Which ranks you with the dead! 2 O could we realize the scene, And view the change as near! 'The next employ our care. Prepar'd to take our flight, S. M. To lay this body down ; Into a world unknown? 2 I must from God be driven, Or with my Saviour dwell; Or else--depart to hell. 3 Show me the way to shun Thy dreadful wrath severe; I may with joy appear. 4 Thou art thyself the way, T'hyself to me reveal; Obedient to thy will. 124. L. M. Swift on the wings of time it flies; Will vanish from my closing eyes. 2 Death calls my friends, my neighbours hence, And shall they fail to reach my heart? 3 Think, O my soul! how much depends On the short period of to-day; Be negligently thrown away? Lord of my life, inspire my lieart With heavenly ardour, grace divine ; Nor let thy presence o'or depart; For strength, and life, and death aro thine. 125. L. M ONLY this frail and flecting breath Preserves me from the jaws of death : Soon as it fails, at once I'm gono, And plung'd into a world unknown. Then, leaving all I lov'd below, But could I bear to hear him say Lord Jesus! help me now to flee, DEATH OF A SCHOLAR. 126. L. M. Lord of the heav'ns, and earth, and scas; And with my lips i sing his praise. 2 There is a law which he has writ, To teach us all what we must do: My soul, to his commands submit, For they are holy, just, and true. 3 There is an hour when I must die ; Nor do I know how soon 'twill eonie : A thousand children young as I, Are callid by death to hear their doom. 4 Let me improve the hours I have, Before the day of graco is fled ; There's no repentance in the grave, Nor pardon offer'd to the dead. 127. C. M. Tuy voice, great God ! has callid away A soul that once was here; Silent his tungue, and cold his clay, His eye can shed no tear. |