2 With admiration they behold

The love of Christ that can't be told;
They view themselves upon the shore,
And think the battle all is o'er.

3 They feel themselves quite free from pain, And think their enemies are slain

They make no doubt but all is well,
And Satan is cast down to hell.

4 They wonder why old saints don't sing,
And make the heavenly arches ring,
Ring with melodious, joyful sound,
Because a prodigal is found

5 But 'tis not long before they feel
Their feeble souls begin to reel;
They think their former hopes were vain,
For they are bound in Satan's chain.
6 The morning that did shine so bright,
Is turned to the shades of night;
Their hearts that did with music ring,
Are now untun'd in every string.

7 O foolish child, why didst thou boast,
In the enlargement of thy coast?
Why didst thou think to fly away,
Before thou leav'st this feeble clay?

Come, take up arms, and face the field,
Come, gird on harness, sword and shield,
Stand fast in faith, fight for your king,
And soon the vict'ry you shall win.

9 When Satan comes to tempt your minds,
Then meet him with these blessed lines
Jesus our Lord has won the field,
And we're determin'd not to yield.

HYMN 138. L. M.

Love to Christ, present or absent.

O'Jesus, thy love exceeds the rest;

all the joys, which creatures know,

'Tis the best blessing here below, The highest rapture of the blest. 2 While we are held in thine embrace, There's not a thought attempts to rove; Each smile that's seen upon thy face, Fixes, and charms, and fires our love. 3 Hearing thy speech, immortal joys Ravish our ears, and fill the heart; Our souls all melt by thy dear voice, And pleasure shoots through every part. 4 When of thine absence we complain, And long and weep and humbly pray; There's a strange pleasure in the pain, Those tears are sweet which mourn thy stay. 5 When round thy courts by day we rove, Or ask the watchmen of the night, For some kind tidings from above, The very name creates delight. 6 Jesus our God, descend and come, Our eyes shall dwell upon thy face, 'Tis heav'n to see our Lord at home, And feel the presence of thy grace.

HYMN 139. S. M.

The Good that I would, I do not. Rom. vii. 19.

I WOULD, but cannot sing,

I would, but cannot pray,

For Satan meets me when I try,
And frights my soul away.

2 I would, but can't repent,
Though I endeavour oft,

This stony heart can ne'er relent,
Till Jesus make it soft.

3 I would, but cannot love,
Though woo'd by love divine;
No arguments have pow'r to move
A soul so base as mine.

4 I would, but cannot rest
In God's most holy will;
know what he appoints is best,
Yet murmer at it still.

5 Oh, could I but believe !
Then all would easy be;

I would, but cannot-Lord, relieve,
My help must come from thee.
6 Wilt thou not crown at length,
The work thou hast begun?
And with a will afford me strength,
In all thy ways to run?

HYMN 140. C. M.

The Doubting Christian.

F sinful Adam's num'rous race,
I find myself most vile;

To me can God extend his grace,
Or ever grant a smile?

2 Can I be call'd a child of God,
Can I his promise claim;

While sinking in the loathsome flood, Of inbred sin and shame ?

3 Once I could shout his praises high, And call him Lord and King:

But now, how cold and dead I lie,
Nor dare I think to sing.

4 Once I could join his praying flock,
And thought the union sweet;
Conscience forbids me now to mock,
By claiming there a seat.

5 Was I deceiv'd? blest Spirit, tell,
Nor leave me to despair;
Sometimes a heav'n, sometimes a hell,
Within this heart appear.

6 Sometimes I feel a beam divine,
Then God I own and love;
It seems direct from heav'n to shine,
And call me straight above.

7 I stretch my wings and fain would fly,
But Oh, my want of pow'r!
The vision ends, I sin and sigh,
And count the awful score.

8 Great God, resolve this painful strife,
Grant faith and love may reign;
Then I'll devote an endless life,
To sing in highest strain.

HYMN 141.

A Prayer of the Sick Soul

HOU great Physician of the soul,
To thee I bring my case;

My raging malady control,

And heal me by thy grace.

2 Help me to state my whole complaint; But where shall I begin ›

Nor words, nor thoughts can fully paint That worst distemper, sin.

3 It lies not in a single part,

But through my frame is spread; A burning fever in my heart,

A palsy in my head.

4 It makes me deaf, and dumb, and blind, And impotent and lame;

It overclouds, and fills my mind,

With folly, fear and shame.

5 A thousand evil thoughts intrude,
Tumultuous in my breast;
Which indispose me for my food,
And rob me of my rest.

6 Lord, I am sick, regard my cry,
And set my spirit free;
Say, canst thou let a sinner die,
Who longs to live to thee?

HYMN 142 C. M.

O that I were as in months past. Job, xxix. 2.

S

WEET was the time when first I felt
The Saviour's pard'ning blood,

Apply'd to cleanse my soul from guilt,
And bring me home to God.

Soon as the morn the light reveal'd,
His praises tun'd my tongue;
And when the ev'ning shades prevail'd,
His love was all my song.

3 In pray'r my soul drew near the Lord,
And saw his glory shine :

And when I read his holy word,

I call'd each promise mine.

4 But now when ev'ning shade prevails; My soul in darkness mourns;