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His flesh with rugged irons tore,
His limbs all dress'd in purple gore,

Gasping in dying pangs.
2 Surprised the spectacle to see,
I ask'd, who can this victim be

In such exquisite pain? Why thus consign'd to woes? I cried “ 'Tis I," the bleeding God rèplied,

"To save a world from sin." 3 A Christ for rebel mortal dies ! How can it be! my soul replies,

What! Jesus die for me? “Yes," saith the suff'ring Son of God, "I give my life, I spill my blood,

For thee, poor soul, for thee." 4. Lord, since thy life thou'st freely given To bring my wretched soul to heaven,

And bless me with thy love; Then at thy feet, O God, I'll fall. Give thee my life, my soul, my all, To reign with thee above.

HYMN 5. L. M. 1

On which the prince of glory died My richest gain I count but loss,

And pour contempt on all my pride! Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the death of Christ, my God: All the vain things that charm me mos

I sacrifice them to thy blood. 2 See from his head, his hands, his feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down: Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown? Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were a present far too small : Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.

HYMN 6. C. M.

'YONDER-amazing sight! see


Expiring on the accursed tree,

And welt'ring in his blood. 2 Behold a purple torrent run,

Down from his hands and head: The crimson tide puts out the sun!

His groans awake the dead.
3 The trembling earth, the darken'd sky

Proclaim the truth aloud;
And with the anaz'd centurion cry

“This is the Son of God." 4 So great, so vast a sacrifice

May well my hopes revive:
If God's own Son thus bleeds and dies,

The sinner sure may live.
5 O that these cords of love divine,

Might draw me, Lord, to thee!
Thou hast my heart, it shall be thine ;
Thine it shall ever be!

HYMN 7. P. M.
"M tired with visits, modes and forms,

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Their conversation cloys: Their vain amours and empty stuff: But I can ne'er enjoy enough Of thy beut company, my Lord, thou life of all

my joys. & When he begins to tell his love, Through every vein iny passions move,

The captives of his tongue : In midnight shades, on frosty ground, I could attend the pleasing sound, Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the

darkness long.
8 There while I hear my Saviour God
Count o'er the sins (a heavy load)

He bore upon the tree,
Inward I blush with secret shame,
And weep, and love, and bless the name,
That knew no guilt nor grief his own, but baro

it all for me.

4 Next he describes the thorns he wore, And talks his bloody passion o'er,

Till I am drown'd in tears: Yet with the sympathetic smart, There's a strange joy beats round my heart! The cursed tree has blessings in't, my sweetest

balm it bears. 5 I hear the glorious suff'rer tell, How on the cross he vanquish'd hell,

And all the powers beneath: Transported and inspir'd, my tongue Attempts his triumphıs in a song: How has the serpent lost his sting, and where's

thy vict'ry death? 6 But when he shows his hands and heart, With those dear prints of dying smart,

He sets my soul on fire : Not the beloved John could rest With more delight upon that breast, Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more

intense desire. 7 Kindly he opes to me his ear, And bids me pour my sorrows there,

And tell him all my pains: Thus while I ease my burthen'd heart, In ev'ry woe he bears a part, His arms embrace me, and his hand my droop.

ing head sustains.

HYMN 8. P. M.


Nothing but shame and deep distress,
No period else is seen;
'Till on the cross he bow'd his head,
A spotless victim in our stead,

Caus'd by the creature's sin.
? On the cold ground methinks I see
My Saviour kneel and pray for me ;

For this I him adore;
Seiz'd with a chilly sweat throughout,
Blood drops did force their passage out

Through every opening pore

3 The piercing thorns his temples bore,
His back with lashes all was tore,

Till one the bones might see;
Mocking, they push d him here and there,
Marking his way with blood and tears,

Press'd by the heavy tree. 4 Thus up the hill he painful came, Round him they mock'd and made their game:

At length his cross they rear. And can you see the mighty God, Cry out beneath sin's heavy load,

Without one thankful tear?
6 Thus veiled ju humanity,
He dies in anguish on the tree;

What his grief can tell ?
The shudd'ring rocks their heads recline,
The mourning sun refus'd to shine,

When the Redeemer fell.
8 Shout, brethren, shout in songs divine,
He drank the gall to give us wine,

To quench our parching thirst : Seraphs advance your voices higher, Bride of the Lamb unite the choir, And laud the precious Christ.

HYMN 9. P. M. 1 THOU sweet gliding Kedron, by thy silver

stream, Our Saviour at midnight, when Cynthia's pale

Shone bright on thy waters, did frequently stray,
And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day.
Come saints and adore him, come bow at his

Oh, give him the glory, the praise that is meet;
Let joyful Hosannas inceasing arise,
And join the loud Anthem that gladdens the

skies. How damp were the vapours that fell on his

head, How hard was his pillow, how humble his bed! The Angels, astonishid, grew sad at the sight, And follow'd their master with silent delight.

AWAKENING AND INVITING. 13 3 O Garden of Onivet-dear honour'd sput,

The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot ;
The iheme most transporting to seraphs above,
The wonder of joy and the wonder of love.

HYMN 10. L. M.
TRETCH'D on the cross the Saviour dies;

Hark! lis expiring groans arise! See, from his hands, his feet, bis side.

Runs down the sacred crimson tido ! 2 But life attends the dreadful sound,

And flows from every bleeding wound;
The vital stream how free it flows,

To save and cleanse his rebel fces !
3 And didst thou bleed,- for sinners bleed

And could the sun behold the deed ?
No; he withdrew his shining ray,

And darkness veil'd the mourning day. 4 Can I survey this scene of wo,

Where mingling grief and wonder flow,
And yet my heart unmov'd reniain,

Insensible to love or pain ?
5 Come, dearest Lord, thy grace impart,

To warm this cold, unfeeling heart;
Tili all its powers and passions move,
In melting grief, and ardent love.


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HYMN 11. P. M. 1 OP, poor sinnu. ! stop and think,

Before you fart her go!
Can you sport upon the brink

Of everlasting wo?
Hell henrath is gaping wide,

Vengeance waits the dread command;
Soon he'll stop your sport and pride,

And sink you with the damn'd.

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