Then let us record
The cooquering name,
Our Captain and Lord,
With shoutings preclaim:
Who trust in his passion,
And follow our Head,
To certain salvation
We all shall be led.
O Jesus, lead on
Thy militant care,
And give us the crown
Of nighteousness there :
Where, dazzled with glory
The seraphim gaze,
Or prostrate adore thee,
la silence of praise.
Come, Lord, and display
Thy sign in the sky,
And bear us away
To mansions on high;
The kingdom be giv'n,
The purchase divine,
And crown us in heav'n
Eternally thine.
435. Death of a Believer.
A¤ lovely appearance of death,
No sight upon earth is so fair;
Not all the gay pageants that breathe,
Can with this dead body compare:
With solemn delight I survey
The corps when the spirit is fled,
In love with the beautiful clay,
And longing to lie in its stead.
How blest is our brother, bereft
Of all that could burthen his mind!
How easy the soul that hath left
This wearisome body behind !
Of evil incapable thou,
Whose relics with envy I see:
No longer in misery now,
No longer a sinner like me.
This earth is affected no more
With sickness, or shaken with pain!
The war in the members is o'er,
And never shall vex him again:
No anger henceforward, or shame,
Shall redden this innocent clay,
Extinct is the animal flame,
And passion is vanish'd away.
This languishing head is at rest,
Its thinking and aching are o'er:
This quiet immoveable breast
Is heav'd by affliction no more:
This heart is no longer the seat
Of trouble and torturing pain:
It ceases to flutter and beat,
It never shall flutter again.
The lids he so seldom could close,
By sorrow forbidden to sleep,
Seal'd up in eternal repose,
Have strangely forgotten to weep:
The fountains can yield no supplies,
These hollows from water are free;
The tears are all wip'd from these eyes,
And evil they never shall see.
To mourn and to suffer is mine,
While bound in a prison I breathe,
And still for deliverance pine,
And press to the issues of death:
What now with my tears I bedew,
I wait the good time to become,
My spirit created anew,
My flesh be consign'd to the tomb!
436. Death and Glory.
AND let this feeble body fail,
And let it faint or die;
My soul shall quit the mournful vale,
And soar to worlds on high:
Shall join the disembody'd saints,
And find its long-sought rest,
That only bliss for which it pants,
In the Redeemer's breast.
In hope of that immortal crown,
I now the cross sustain,
And gladly wander up and down,
And smile at toil and pain:
I suffer on my threescore years,
Till my Deliv'rer come,
And wipe away his servant's tears,
And take his exile home.
O what hath Jesus bought for me!
Before my ravish'd_eyes
Rivers of life divine I see,
And trees of paradise:
I see a world of spirits bright,
Who taste the pleasures there;
They all are rob'd in spotless white,
And conqu'ring palms they bear.
O what are all my suff'rings here,
If, Lord, thou count me meet,
With that enraptur'd host t' appear,
And worship at thy feet!
Give joy or grief, give ease or pain,
Take life or friends away:
But let me find them all again
In that eternal day!
DEAR Martha! tho' long prest with care,
Has now outship'd the winds;
Her soul is fled to regions fair,
Where Jesu's love she sings.
His face, that bliss to angels yields,
She doth, unveil'd, behold!
His praises thro' the heavenly fields,
She sings to harps of gold!
This bliss thro' time inflam'd her heart,
Tho' temper'd with alloys ;
And now her soul doth e'er impart
The song of all her joys.
My Father and my God: my all!
Who wrought all for my good!
Blest Spirit, thou my soul didst call
To wash in cleansing blood!
Jesus, my Saviour and my Lord!
Who wipes away my tears;
The fount I ever will record,
• Which banish'd all my fears.
The wonders of redeeming love!
• A sinner sav'd by grace!
The theme of every saint above,
Our dear Immanuel's praise!
Eternal love! Eternal love!
Eternal will it be!
I sing, eternal is his love,
Thro' all eternity!'
While thus, in loud, but accents sweet,
Her love, her Lord, she sings,
All heav'n fall prostrate at his feet!
All strike their golden strings!
O may the Lord our souls inspire
To run this heav'nly road!
That we may join her blissful lyre
To praise our Saviour, God.
438. On the Death of a Minister.
His master taken from his head,
Elisha saw him go;
|